


If Everything Could Feel This Real Forever

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Bride!Jae, Fluff, Goblin!AU, Goblin!YoungK, Grimreaper!Dowoon, Lots of plot, M/M, Park Sungjin is G O D, Past Lives, Soulmates AU, Sunny!Wonpil, eventual smut (nothing too graphic/dirty), minor character death (reincarnation etc)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: When General Kang Younghyun struck the sword into his enemy’s heart for the thousandth time, little did he know he would be doing it to himself--cursed with immortality, Kang “Brian” Younghyun is a modern-day rockstar and mogul who is convinced that his soulmate who is destined to pull the sword from his heart doesn’t exist. Returning to Seoul for his homecoming tour, what he doesn’t expect is one Park Jaehyung, a Journalism major assigned to cover the event, to start screaming from the front row, panicking because YoungK has a sword jutting out from his chest.Or the Goblin AU I couldn’t stop thinking about because goddamn, they all look amazing these days.





	1. Fates & Furies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ttamarrindo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttamarrindo/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, everyone! I’m not sure how many chapters this’ll be and I’m not sure how frequently I’ll be updating, but I hope you guys enjoy it. All the chapters will be named after books because why not. Fic title is taken from “Everlong” by The Foo Fighters. Also, as always, I’ve taken liberties with the plot especially in places where I felt the drama did stuff that would only work in the TV medium as well as logical things that I felt were a bit erroneous (e.g. how the Grim Reaper “association” works, etc.). :)
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to ao3 user ttamarrindo because their work never fails to brighten up my life. <3 (Read their fics if you can, they're amazing.)
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hand of fate wields its sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is after Fates & Furies by Lauren Groff--would 100 percent recommend. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

Seoul glistens like a diamond held up to the light despite the cold, white winter that blows through it and the night that hangs behind it like a black veil: laced with stars, a thin darkness--the city lights are bright and colorful, cars moving like rivers of funneled fire. From the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings, a man stands watching, listening to everything: the voices of lovers walking down the street, of families singing carols, of dogs barking in the distance.

He sighs, sick of the sound, tired of the din of restlessness of the world as it spins on its axis--the organized chaos of its orbit. His dark hair blows in the wind like it’s part of the evening itself: inky against the pallor of his skin. He blinks, eyes deep-set, the color of burnt amber. The silver of his cross-shaped earrings (an ironic touch, he thought, given his qualms with the almighty) glint in the light. He takes a sip from the can of beer that’s grown frosty in his gloved hand. _If only alcohol still worked properly._ There is the fizz and the warmth, but none of the buzz, his tolerance heightened over the years, the centuries ringing inside him like strings upon strings of bells strung together too tightly: cramped together and hitting one another in all the wrong places, in the places that hurt, that jut out like the bones of all the people he’s loved, all the people he’s lost. The lives he’s lived clang and reverberate--the clamor of the mob when all he longs for is silence.

He looks up at the adjacent billboard--it’s one of himself where he’s advertising the same brand of beer he’s holding, billboard-him holding the can up like it’s the best thing since sliced bread. In the photograph, he’s smiling wide, head tipped back as he holds up the can that’s been digitally manipulated to look like it’s glittering.

So good, it’ll leave you wanting more!

His signature is looping, punctuating the short testimonial.

 _Liar._ More is the opposite of what he wants: what he wants is for all of it to be done. He finishes off his can of beer before hurtling it at the billboard with all his strength. The can hits his giant photograph right between the eyes, puncturing a hole in his face. _Shame on you, General Kang._ He hasn’t gone by that name in a long, long time.

The door to the stairwell opens, footsteps on the metal steps.

“YoungK? Fifteen to showtime.”

He turns around, comes face-to-face with Park Sungjin, his adopted nephew--one of Seoul’s richest socialites and the city’s most-coveted bachelor, both for his fortune and his good looks. Park Sungjin or Shiny Eyes, as the press had nicknamed him, is eternally gracing the social scene: if there’s a party, he’ll be there. Tonight, it’s Brian’s--or, YoungK’s, as he’d decided to call himself almost two decades ago--homecoming concert: the arena is booked to maximum capacity, all the lights and fireworks pulled out, everything ready except him.

It’s his first time performing in Seoul in almost a decade, the last stop on his tour, and what he plans to be his last concert in this lifetime. After this, it would be time for the cycle to repeat itself--fake his own death (overdose? aneurysm? gunshot?), lie low for a few decades, decide on a new profession, a new storyline, and begin again somewhere else.

“You don’t have to call me that when we’re not in public.”

Sungjin pushes his collar up against the wind before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. He grins, coy.

“Well, the last time I called you Brian, you had my credit cards cancelled. So I’m just making sure nothing like that happens again. It’s hard being one of Seoul’s hottest bachelors when you can’t buy anyone a drink--that’s the currency my people deal in.”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “ _That_ was because you were sixteen and going out every night and flunking Algebra. I was mad about Brian because you should be calling me _uncle,_ you brat.”

Sungjin rolls his eyes. “Do honorifics apply if you’re like, 50,000 years old?”

“656, actually, for your information. Stop insulting me.” Brian claps Sungjin on the shoulder, a slow grin spreading itself across his face. “And I guess honorifics _are_ a bit silly when I’m dealing with a mere mortal, huh.”

“Hah.” Sungjin studies Brian’s face, knows that he’s been in one of his moods. “Oh, come on. Cheer up. Don’t be too bummed about it. I mean, sure, you didn’t find your soulmate or killer or whatever yet but you’re kinda young in this life. I mean, fourty isn’t too shabby. Marrying late is a thing now. I know back when plague was a thing, you guys got married at twelve and died at like, fifteen or something but you’ve got time now. And I mean--” Sungjin drops his voice to a stage whisper as he opens the door to the stairwell. “--you’re a rockstar so you get laid, right, Bri? You aren’t like, collecting cobwebs or anything in that region?”  

Brian hits him upside the head.

“Do you _want_ to be dateless tonight at the afterparty? I can make that happen--all your credit gone like that.” Brian snaps his fingers.

Sungjin shakes his head vigorously, his carefully-coiffed hair flopping into his eyes. “No, Sir.”

Brian nods toward the staircase. “Come on, then. The show must go on.”

With a flourish of his hand, a flap of his coat as a gust pushes across the rooftop, Brian opens the door to the stairwell and they step into the darkness, emerge from the closet of YoungK’s dressing room.

 

Across the city, a man in a pitch-black hat crosses the street. The stoplight is red. His suit is tailored to fit, accentuating his figure, the line of his shoulders, the taper of his waist. His suit is black but the falling snow doesn’t leave so much as a speck of white on it. It’s made for movement, for withstanding the rigors of carrying souls. He moves like a shadow, like night pulling twilight over the horizon--sure and steady as death.

A pocket watch sits in the front pocket of his blazer, the chain hanging a burnished shade of gold across the dark fabric. He can hear it tick: two minutes and twelve seconds. He brushes the curls of his fringe from his eyes--childlike in their twinkle, reminiscent of an abyss in their depth.

The street is near-empty except for a white 1998 Honda careening down the length of the road at 120 km/h, its windows rolled down, body swerving, its back tire blown out, the man in it too intoxicated to be driving. The Grim Reaper can smell the scent of the alcohol on him, can feel the hairs on his arms bristle in the cold winter wind, hears his name, his age, his life, the verdict, clear as the tolling of a bell death calls for him, beckons him closer.

Less than a minute. He puts a hand in his pocket as the mortality card materializes, the paper rough and thick under his fingertips. He steps into the street right as a truck comes barrelling down the street--a giant force of metal out of left field, crushing the Honda and the man in it against the sidewalk. The Grim Reaper blinks slowly, reaching a hand out as the man is thrown through the windshield: his body passes through the shattered glass but his soul catches of his deft fingers--a silver, more luminescent version of the man, like the opposite of a shadow, still in shock, frantic.

The Grim Reaper feels the tug, the weight of his life, sees everything: the man is 58, currently on his third life, grew up in a small house by the sea on the coast of Busan, had come to Seoul to attend university, gotten married at 24, his wife had passed ahead of him, dying at childbirth, his daughter living in the suburbs of Incheon, his life is a small one filled with big acts of kindness, small cruelties, he had just come from a reunion with his high school friends, had too much to drink, was too intoxicated to forget not to drive.

“Let go of me!” The man squirms as the Grim Reaper pulls him off to the side, toward the nearest tree, away from the scene of the accident. The pull of life--the people the man has loved, the places he has lived--is strong but the Grim Reaper has been trained by years of working for death. His grip is strong. The man’s soul stays.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the Grim Reaper says. His voice is deep, like if the darkest blues of the ocean could speak. “Kim Sang-hoon, you were born on October 13th 1959. You died today, on December 12th 2017. The cause of death is loss of blood. The ambulances are on their way but they won’t make it in time. Your daughter will be informed shortly.”

“But--I’m meeting my friends again on the 28th. My grandchild’s birthday is next week.”

The Grim Reaper blinks. “I’m afraid that won’t happen. Your remaining blessings will be showered upon your grandchild.”

The man is crying, still in disbelief. The Grim Reaper hands him his handkerchief--not that it would do much, at this point, but death is nothing if not courteous. The man looks up at him. “What now?”

The Grim Reaper begins their walk toward the Hanok village--he knows a path from the shadow of the nearby Camphor tree with arms that reach out to the moon: it was an easy skate by moonlight. Death specializes in the in-betweens. One hand on the bark, the other on the soul, he says a prayer and they emerge at the doorway of the Tea House.

“What are we doing here?” The man asks as they enter, the high-ceilinged chamber decked with shelves full of small bottles of different shapes and colors and sizes. He takes a seat at the table.

The Grim Reaper prepares the tea, pours the clear liquid into two small, round cups.

“Now, we drink to your life.”

 

“Well, this is fancy. But they spelled my name wrong. Who the hell is Bernahd Park?”

The tall, lanky young man wearing the red scarf tucked into his oversized black hoodie under his thick padded coat rolls his eyes at his friend, who is making a fuss of putting his Press ID on. His own ID is pinned haphazardly to the collar of his coat. It reads: Park “Jae” Jaehyung, Journalism Department, Dongguk University. His round, gold rimmed glasses have frosted toward the bottom of the frame. His nose is red from the cold.

“Yeah, you’d think it’d come with a press room with proper heating but maybe that’s too much to ask.” Jae walks over to the nearby vendo machine, getting them both two small but steaming cups of coffee.

The press room is filled with other shivering journalists--both professionals and students--all of them having crawled out from their burrows on the coldest evening yet this winter, all to be able to report South Korea’s most elusive celebrity: YoungK, pop-rock sensation. YoungK, not stopping to perform in Seoul in over ten years. Tickets were sold out, press passes like gold.

“Hey, at least you get a byline,” Bernard says, taking the coffee and knocking it back in one go. It’s cold by the time it goes down. “My photos are being credited to the Dongguk Media Office.”

Jae grins. “Well, I mean. You _do_ hate taking photos so. It’s fine.

“I’m a sound production major, for fuck’s sake.” Bernard says, adjusting the aperture on his camera. “But well, if you happen to own a camera--”

“--you mean, if they happen to be paying you to do it and you’re two months behind on rent--”

“--yeah, there’s that,” Bernard assents. “So, you listen to this guy? What’s his music like?”

Jae gives him a look of shock. “Dude, for real? Who _doesn’t_ listen to YoungK? Even growing up in LA, I knew who the guy was. There was like, Big Bang--and there was YoungK, you know? He’s like. What Lady Gaga would’ve been if she was a Korean megacool rebel. His music is fucking genius. He’s got this crazy range like he can do low, borderline growl-y vocals, and he can do extremely high, Freddie Mercury-esque stuff too. I think he’s the cat’s pajamas.”

“So it’s going to be a fluff piece.” Bernard says, looking at Jae pointedly.

“Well,” Jae says, grinning. “If they’re going to insist on milking my writing prowess for all it’s worth because I’m a scholarship kid and they know that if they say anything in relation to my schooling, I’ll do it for dirt-cheap and will be willing to cross the fucking city when I’m freezing my ass off, then I’m going to write whatever the hell I want.”

“Good point.”

Jae happens to glance at the open door to the press room and into the corridor outside, catches a flash of something odd--the flap of a coat, a pointed object glinting in the light, a flash of dark hair. As soon as he cranes his neck to see who it is, the figure is gone. He feels goosebumps rise on his arms. _Please, please not tonight._ That’s something he could never tell Bernard: sometimes he sees things--people who weren’t supposed to be around anymore. Ghosts, some people called them, but Jae prefers souls. It seems the more humane choice. And after his mom, he knows in his heart of hearts, that death is just like walking--passing through one door and into another.

“Alright, everyone.” The Press & Media coordinator says into the megaphone from the corner of the room. “Please line up in an orderly fashion. We’ll go alphabetically per institution. From Assan Media to Dongguk University, you’ll have the front row. Please follow me.”

Jae grins, wiggles his eyebrows at Bernard. “Oh yeah. Showtimeeee.”

 

It was a hit-and-run on a cool December evening in 1996--a mild Los Angeles winter that Brian barely remembers, except for the fight that he’d had with the most stubborn Grim Reaper he’d ever met: it was the buckwheat flowers that gave him away. It was one of those nights when he was feeling especially sulky, especially tired of life. His second album had just gone platinum. He felt nothing. He was sitting at one of the sunset-view rooftop bars, downing his fifth drink, only mildly tipsy. Pop  music pulsed through the stereo--someone singing about being high, about California love, about flesh and fantasies, about all the things that Brian had lost ardor for.

The entire sun was a watered-down bright orange, like a Sunkist dipped in milk. He glanced down from where he was seated, wondering if it was worth it to finish the Vodka Tonic sweltering in its glass or if it was time to call it a night and maybe head back to the studio to write some more songs. He was staring at nothing in particular. There was the sidewalk, a woman crossing the street, red scarf fluttering in the wind, groceries in her arms as she swayed along to music playing from her headphones. He smiled. It was one of his songs. He could recognize it in the cadence to which she tapped her fingers against the paper bag, he heard it in the partial melody she half-hummed. Her hair fluttered in the wind.

The car came out of nowhere. Black sedan. Death on four wheels: metal on flesh, bones hitting the pavement--and then its tires were squealing against the concrete as it sped away. Brian froze. He wasn’t one to meddle. The walkman was still playing his song: a song about being alone, a song about wanting it all to be alright. He listened to her prayers, the first ones he’d heard in years from staving off the pain of not being able to do anything about people’s wishes. He wasn’t a genie, wasn’t an angel.

_Please. I don’t care about myself but my son--I don’t want him to grow up alone._

Brian had sighed, left his drink on the overhang as he made for exit. He hadn’t so much brought her back as he had beat death to the punch: staunched the bleeding, given her a little bit of his own life, a couple more minutes that were useless to him anyway: what are seven minutes to an immortal? It would be five years before death claimed her for good (another accident, this time across the world in Seoul)--the wager struck with the Grim Reaper. Brian had failed to mention the child: born at 7.25 lbs, with a birthmark the shape of a flame on his nape. What the Grim Reaper didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

 

The concert starts with Jae’s favorite YoungK song--an ironically upbeat pop banger about not wanting to be alone. The drums kick off, the atmosphere sizzling, thumping with energy. He feels his stomach lurch with excitement as the lights come on to the staccato piano melody. He grins as the platform lowers YoungK down onto the stage so that it looks like he’s descending from the crescent moon that is the focal point of the set design. The lights only illuminate his face, his signature earrings glinting in the low light. YoungK’s voice resounds the room. It’s unlike anything that Jae has ever heard before: high and low in all the right places, full of emotion and energy, a force to be reckoned with.

He sings along to the words, remembers his mom, finds himself teary-eyed. He jumps along to the beat as YoungK smiles, waving to everyone, breaking through the intro to wish Seoul a good evening.

And then the lights come on in full blast and Jae screams: jutting out from YoungK’s chest, piercing him right through the heart, is a bronze-hilted, single-handed saber, glinting in the light.

“BERNARD!” Jae tugs at Bernard’s sleeve.

“Yo, dude, what?” Bernard looks up from the lens of his camera, annoyed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck--we need to call the paramedics--”

“--what? Jae, are you alright?” Irritation is replaced by concern as Bernard studies Jae’s face, scanning him for allergies or any signs of illness.

Jae looks up at the stage, eyes wide. “Dude, he has a fucking sword sticking out of his chest!”

“What are you talking about--”

But Jae isn’t listening, is already on his phone, dialling the emergency number for the paramedics. He thinks back to his mom, to the night of the accident that had changed his life forever. Blood pounds in his veins.

“Hi, yes. I’m at the Gocheok Sky Dome, at the YoungK concert. Someone’s stabbed him--he has a sword sticking out of his chest. Please hurry.”

 

 

The concert is halted as the paramedics rush into the arena in the middle of the fourth song. By then, Jae is hyperventilating, unsure how it is that YoungK is singing, dancing along to the music and then later on, playing the piano, switching to the guitar, when there is a heavy piece of metal stuck in his chest. He’s seen things, sure--spirits, in the past, lost souls trying to talk to him, but he knows for a fact that YoungK is _alive._ He’s solid, on stage, has none of the pallor of the ghosts, none of that opalescent quality to them. And the sword looks heavy, solid. _How could he not notice? Maybe he’s high?_

Bernard is trying to tell him something but at this point, Jae is bent over the railing, just trying to stay standing. He can’t hear, can’t understand whatever Bernard is trying to yell at him through the music. His vision swims. The lights and the music, the crowd and the chanting are all a blur. The lights come on, the paramedics part the crowd, the police in tow. Jae takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. _Good. So they can find whoever the hell stabbed him. Who would do that? Who the fuck would do that?_ Jae heaves a sigh of relief as they rush toward the stage. The music stops. He cranes his neck, trying to see if YoungK is alright.

He blinks. YoungK is nodding, explaining something. The policemen are frowning. The paramedics look confused. They read a report out to YoungK. His eyes grow wide as he scans the crowd.

Jae frowns. _What the hell is going on?_

YoungK reaches for the mic. “Excuse me. I’m sorry for the disruption. Is there a Park Jaehyung in the crowd?”

Jae finds himself raising his hand, a reflex at hearing his name. The spotlight finds him. He holds a hand up to shield himself from the bright light. YoungK looks at him, their eyes meet. For a moment everything is still. Dark hair, sly eyes--old and wise in his youthful face. Jae’s heart skips a beat.

“Dude,” Bernard says. “What the hell are you on? You’re going to be in so much trouble.”

YoungK nods at his security guy. “I need to talk to him. Keep him in my dressing room until the end of the show.”

“Jae,” Bernard says as the security guys dip into the crowd, start to pull Jae away. “I’ll text you after the show. Don’t say anything around the police--you have rights, remember that. If you need one phone call, call the prefect.”

“Fuck the prefect,” Jae says. “Keep your phone on.”

“Okay, okay. If they try anything stupid, you call me--”

The security guys all but carry Jae away from his spot in the crowd.

“Yo, wait,” Jae says as they push through the double-doors. “Wait, is he okay? What are they going to do about the sword?”

The doors swing shut and a handsome man wearing a charcoal-gray coat is waiting for him in the corridor, his hair swept back. _That’s the guy from one of those magazines. The one always holding a cocktail._ The security guys release Jae.

“Park Sungjin,” the man says, extending his hand. “I’m supposed to keep you company until Bri--err, YoungK is ready to talk to you.”

Jae shakes his hand warily, confused. “Look, I really saw the fucking sword, this isn’t a false alarm, I’m not some idiot pulling a prank--”

Sungjin grins. “Save it, kid. That’s not why he needs to talk to you.”

Jae frowns but follows Sungjin down the hallway, into the dressing room. Sungjin pours him coffee, offers him some cookies. “Wait--he’s not going to press charges, is he? I mean, I swear to god, I saw the fucking sword jutting out of his goddamn chest. Is that a concert prop?”

Sungjin chuckles as he takes a seat, crossing his legs before whipping out his phone to check his Instagram notifications. He glances up at Jae mid-scroll.

“All I’m going to say is, I hope you don’t hate the idea of marriage.”

Jae’s eyebrows furrow. “Sorry, what?”


	2. Stranger, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an immovable object meets an unstoppable force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is after Stranger, Baby by Emily Berry, one of my favorite poetry collections that I read this year. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

 

The door clicks and Jae looks up from the book he’s reading--Murakami’s A Wild Sheep Chase, its spine cracked from being bent back on itself. In the book, the protagonist meets a familiar stranger in a coffee shop. Something about the light and the smell of smoke and coffee, something about perfect ears.

Jae frowns, more than halfway through his nth re-read, mildly irritated both at being interrupted and at the fact that he hadn’t been interrupted earlier; he’s been waiting in the dressing room with Sungjin (who refused to give him the wifi password) for almost two hours now. He’s taken off his jacket, the heating in here sufficient (he thinks bitterly of the press room) but he’s left his scarf on for comfort. It’s scarlet like an apple, crimson as a drop of blood.

It’s the first thing that Brian notices when he walks into the room: he remembers that Los Angeles winter, sunny for a day containing such bleak events. He remembers it in fragments, the rest of it hazy, already so long ago: the woman’s scarf fluttering in the wind--that moment suspended in time right before the crash. Mortal life, Brian thinks as he watches the bespectacled young man glance up at him, his eyes twinkling, his mouth a soft, vulnerable thing--fragile as a spider dangling on a precarious string of web.

“Jesus fuck,” Jae says, turning to see that the enormous sword is still in Brian’s chest, the hilt jutting out like a tooth half-erupted in a too-small mouth. “Where the fuck are the paramedics? Isn’t that stupid ad on all the trains about how Seoul has the most modern medical technology? And they can’t fucking bring a guy with a sword in his chest to the motherfucking hospital--”

“--why do you curse so much?” Brian walks to over to the bar, pours bourbon and sugar syrup into a cocktail shaker, scoops ice in before shaking it exactly four and a half times. It rattles, the ice against metal, days against the clamor of time. He decants the mixture into two small glasses, garnishes it with mint. He takes a sip before handing Jae one of the cocktails. “I didn’t think that destiny would give me someone so...crass.”

Their fingers brush as Jae takes the glass. It tingles. Brian’s eyebrows knit together for the briefest moment at the sensation. _Huh._

Jae blinks once, twice before taking a sip. The cocktail is sweet, cool against his tongue. The alcohol spreads through his stomach. His cheeks heat up. It takes a moment before what Brian’s said sinks in.

“Wait, _what_?”

Brian takes a swig from his cocktail. “It’s a long story but basically, you’re the only one who can see this stupid sword that’s been festering in my chest for like, a couple of centuries. So. Yeah. You have to pull it out.”

Sungjin looks up from his phone, grinning. “Oh, it’s about to get _real_ good.”

Jae downs the rest of the cocktail. “Okay, look. I consider myself a pretty nice guy. I’ve seen some things in my day--some stupid shit like, weird paranormal whatever, dead people talking to me and everything, but if you’re trying to tell me that destiny has brought me here to pull that thing out of your chest, you’re crazy. No fucking way I’m going to get put in jail for murder--”

“--manslaughter, technically, although I get the feeling it’ll be some razzle-dazzle evaporating type of scenario, I mean a general damned by destiny to live forever can’t possibly die a normal death so you don’t have to worry about the body--” Brian sucks on a small cube of ice before biting down on it. There is a cracking sound as it gives under the impact, breaking almost neatly in half.

“--what the fuck is wrong with you?” Jae asks, slamming the glass down on the table.

Brian sighs. “I don’t know why you’re making it so complicated. How much money do you want? 50,000 dollars maybe? A hundred thousand? What does it cost to be young in Seoul these days?”

Jae glances around, fumbling for his stuff--grabs his padded coat, his backpack. “Dude, okay, I won’t fucking print the story, but just let me go. You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”

Brian grins, reaches out to tug gently at Jae’s forearm as he makes for the door. The flash of memory hits him like a hurricane--that cool, Los Angeles evening, the December sun low in the horizon, a milky Sunkist in the sky. The vehicle coming out of nowhere, the impact, the prayer: underneath it all, the faintest heartbeat hiding inside a bigger one like a Matryoshka Doll, sounding even then like the ring of laughter, the smallest olive branch of hope, swaying his otherwise apathetic mind. Jae feels it too, a shiver running down his spine, the small hairs on his nape, on the backs of his arms standing as if electrocuted. Their eyes meet: hazel gazing into deep brown, like the moon giving a last, longing look at the sun as they pass each other by--the night kissing dawn’s cheek, sunlight bowing to twilight.

“Let me drive you home,” Brian says, his voice a hare softer as he lets Jae go. “Please. I’ll explain on the way.”

Jae looks at Brian--notices again how young he looks, how his wise eyes somehow don’t belong in the same face that holds his soft, candid smile, his rosy cheeks still kissed pink from performing on stage. Jae thinks of the moon shining above the city, thinks of flowers blooming in the dead of winter.

“Okay.” Jae tightens his scarf around his neck, puts his padded jacket and backpack on, his book still clutched to his chest like light holds a falling star.

  


The battlefield is soaked with blood, the blades of grass a small mimicry of the swords that lay sharp and useless, held loose in the hands of their slain wielders. Horses gallop, neighing in the frenzy--desperate to get away. The sky is a bright gray, the dark gloom of it illuminated somehow by the sun that it hides beneath its veil. Thunder crackles: not the promise of rain, only the call for it to wash all the death away.

In the middle of it all stands one man, dark hair swept up into a high ponytail, his General’s helmet long since having fallen off and onto the hot earth. The navy bodice of his military hanbok is dripping crimson, turning it the color of the sleeves of his undergarment--except wet, except spreading still. His eyes are fierce, filled with anger, trained on the invaders’ general as he charges toward him on horseback.

General Kang smirks, holding his sword up despite the fact that his shoulder aches, despite the fact that his muscles are weary--his adrenaline, his rage, his hunger for the fight gives him strength. He knows the opponent is weary too, knows his leg has been cut one too many times, can see his black boot dripping red. He knows that the horse is not an advantage but a necessity for him to remain standing, for him to be able to charge. He doesn’t have to swing the sword, only holds it at the right angle, slightly off-center, slightly to the right. He grins as it cuts through the leg, severing bone from bone, tendon from flesh as the horse and the opponent general fall, as they signal retreat, as the last battle is won.

General Kang walks toward the slain opponent, looks down into his face--still breathing, still blinking, watching as he looks up at him perplexed, his lips moving in some form of prayer. He bears his boot down against the opponent’s neck, holds his sword high.

“You will be--damned--” the opponent whispers, voice dripping with malice.

“--as will you,” General Kang says. “Your men slaughtered our innocents as you pillaged our villages, as you set our fields aflame, as you forced our countrymen to live on grass, chewing wheat harvested with blood and bone. You sentenced us to life worse than death--”

“--and what about _your_ men?” the opponent manages, as he coughs up blood. “You killed thousands upon thousands: men who were fathers, who were lovers, who were sons. You drowned us and set us ablaze, you poisoned our water, you hanged us for secrets. You ambushed us, tortured us--”

General Kang laughs. It rings out in the field laden with dead bodies. “--you knew that was the game when you marched in here, out for blood. What you didn’t know is that you would be going up against me. When the devil meets you at the gates of damnation, when the demons lick at the soles of your feet and your ancestors are unable to pry you from their grasp, tell them that General Kang Younghyun sent you to meet them.”

“--there is no place in heaven for you, Kang--”

The sentence goes unfinished, punctuated by the blade of General Kang’s sword as it pushes into his opponent’s heart. He twists the hilt, the turn of his wrist sealing his enemy in death, the spine cracking against the edge of the blade.

“General Kang,” his Lieutenant says as he walks up behind him. “The remaining enemies have fled. What is the command?”

General Kang wipes blood, sweat off of his face as he sheaths his sword. “Let’s go home.”  


 

It catches them all off guard--they’d marched home hundreds of times before, after winning battles, had been welcomed home with trumpets ringing and with banners, townsfolk showering them with rice and blessings, the emperor, his friend, his brother-in-law, waiting with his good graces and the promises of a feast, of handsome men to warm his bed, of medals and good drink and merrymaking.

The victory had dulled General Kang’s memory, had turned it fuzzy at the edges: for a moment, he’d forgotten about the mounting tension after the emperor had turned his betrothed away to marry the General’s brother, how the advisors had swooped down on him even as he began to defy them, convincing him that his newly wedded husband had turned him from his “normal” ways through sorcery, convincing him to take up his former betrothed as a concubine to bear his heir, whispering things in his ear about how the General himself was a vessel of dark magic.

Who had brought the younger Kang here, anyway? Hadn’t everything been fine before this? Hadn’t the plans to marry the girl been clear-cut as an empty glass glinting in the sunlight?

General Kang had forgotten about the way that his younger brother had slowly become more and more isolated from him, the way that the Emperor, once his closest friend and confidant had shut him off, giving him only one command over and over again: win the war and you will be rewarded. And so he had.

And so they are here, standing at the gates of the palace with arrows pointed at them.

And so they are here, having won a war simply to be captured by former comrades, his weary men tied up or slaughtered or both as he, the General victor, head of the Kingsguard, protector of the Goryeo empire, is kicked up the courtyard, the backs of his knees cut as he reels from the pain of the betrayal that strikes true like silver against bone. He falls onto his knees, the wounds gaping, gushing blood, stinging against the fabric of his pants. He draws his sword, uses it to hold himself up.

“Kang Younghyun,” the Head Adviser’s voice says, booming as he stands beside the emperor. “You are sentenced to treason of the highest order--for betraying Emperor Dowoon of the House of Yoon, wielding dark magic and sorcery through the vessel that is your brother, Kang Wonpil. Come to your death and your brother shall be spared, shall be exiled without a hair on his head harmed. Refuse and he, too, will be ended, your bloodline seeping into the earth as you threatened to do for the House of Yoon with your foul blood. We all know about your lovers, about who they are, _what_ they are.”

General Kang looks at his brother, still dressed in his regal robes, gold-on-white, clutching his wedding ring like it’s a shield, a totem that will grant him safety. He feels his eyes fill with tears as he watches his younger brother holding his head high, his slight frame a beacon of strength against the betrayal.

“Choose wisely,” the Minister of Finance says, seconding the Head Adviser. “Life or death.”

The archers nock their arrows, take aim.

“Ignorant fool,” General Kang says. “You can’t kill love with arrows, you can’t quench an idea with death. If you think that equal rights and loving certain people is dark magic, then you’re all stupid. If this is the kind of world you run, then you I will be glad to be exempt from it--”

He glances up at Wonpil.

“--but you leave my brother out of this. Kill me and--”

“--hyung,” Wonpil says, his face unmoving. “They’re toying with the Emperor. They poison him. Every morning, I see it, the cup coated in lead to make him weak, to get him to do what they want. Don’t let them get away with it. Fight one last battle for me.”

General Kang shakes his head. “I’m not going to let you die.”

“We are of the House of Kang--noble warriors and scholars. Our pledge isn’t to the House of Yoon but to the Empire of Goryeo. If we live as cowards, who will we be then? A life is just a life. What we leave behind is more important. Let them kill me if it means ending this travesty.”

General Kang watches his brother’s face: his gentle features are stoic, his usual smile replaced by a solemn stare that pierces through him. He looks up at Dowoon--he is unmoving, his expression unreadable, his eyes far away.

“Hyung, please,” Wonpil says. “I love him. Save him from them.”

With that, an arrow flies from the far perch, piercing Wonpil through the heart as he falls to the ground, his hand outstretched, his ring--pale gold, the wedding heart engraved on it, breaking as he hits the ground. General Kang watches, eyes wide in horror. Anger fills him, the rage coursing through his veins. He gets to his feet. They hit him with a slew of arrows. He moves, still, undeterred, determined to put his sword through the Head Adviser’s heart. All around him, his men are slain by soldiers. The courtyard bleeds red as his men fight back, as he plunges his sword through the hearts of the Minister of Finance, the Minister of Relations.

He swings his sword at the Head Adviser, but he is a moment too slow, his knees not strong enough, his entire body weary from battle--three arrows shoot through his legs, pinning him down. He drops his sword. The Head Adviser grins, walking toward him now, fearless, stepping over the dead bodies of his comrades to pick up the General’s sword by its hilt.

“We will leave your body out in the fields to rot, to be mourned by the countrymen whose praise you so dearly valued. We will have them watch you, the legend, Kang the Great, rot like a common corpse, eyes picked out by ravens. The Goryeo Empire will be ours, by hook or by crook. And when you meet god, beg him to come back--that’s the only way you will win this. You idiot, you traitor-- _you_ are the fool.”

The sword strikes true.

It pours. Everything is red, washing everything crimson: a river of the dead, an outpouring of spent life. The sky seems to crack, the dark gray giving way to electricity, lightning crossing it like the eye of god blinking awake. General Kang Younghyun dies for a moment, feels nothing, just the blackness of death, just the stillness and peace, the relief of dying. He has yet to awake as a soul, the Grim Reapers have yet to harvest, have yet to hear his bell toll.

The Emperor watches in terror, is unable to say anything, is able to move moments much too late, just minutes in real time as the poison burning in his veins finally runs its course. He is trembling, thinks everything is his fault. _Wonpil, my love. Younghyun, my brother dear. I love you both. I am sorry._ He takes a sword from the hand of his fallen minister, holds it high above his chest the way he’d seen it done by war criminals, by captured generals, by traitors.

The Head Adviser turns, the last domino in the relay of delayed attempts at salvation. “No! Your highness!”

The emperor spits blood as he pushes the blade into himself. His scarlet gown turns a deep wine.

And then a choice is made: maybe god, maybe destiny, maybe the still point of the turning world throwing the earth for a loop yet again, tricking life into death, death into life. Lightning and thunder ring out.

Flowers begin to bloom.

Blood rushes through General Kang’s fingertips, coming awake, coming alive, his wound already healing even as it begins to bleed anew. The sword invisible now, part of his heart, disappearing from plain sight. His eyes open, renewed vigor in his veins. _You will pay for death with life,_ goes the silent wager, the truth General Kang knows in his veins. _You will be Goblin, Guardian, lonesome protector, until the one to draw the sword appears. Pay for your rage with peace. Pay for the lives you have taken with your own._

He stands, drawing his sword from his chest, hungry for vengeance.  


 

“Well, fuck,” Jae says as they pull up to the main gate of Dongguk University. “Okay, okay. Hold on. So you mean like. You’re a goblin--”

“-- _the_ Goblin,” Brian corrects him as he shows his ID to the guard, who asks for his autograph. He signs the small piece of paper before they roll into campus. “Yes, and you are my groom.”

“Groom?” Jae asks, adjusting his glasses. “Isn’t it supposed to be a _bride_ ? I’m pretty sure all of the kids’ books say _bride._ The Goblin’s _bride._ ”

“If you were to learn anything from the story that I just told you, I was hoping that it’d be that ancient society was extremely heteronormative, even more so than it is now. Mankind is slow but steady when it comes to progress. Like a turtle walking on fly paper. So of course those stupid fables say _bride._ Destiny, the almighty, whatever, isn’t quite so two-dimensional. No one has been able to see this sword, do you understand?”

Jae frowns. “It’s weird, though. I’ve been practicing the whole ride and if I don’t want to see it, I don’t see it. I can make it vanish. Does that mean that if I don’t want to be your groom, I can choose not to be?”

Brian raises an eyebrow as they pull up to the curb of Jae’s dorm. “I think that’s probably just a practical thing set in place so that you won’t have to always be looking at some guy with a sword through his chest.”

“Dude, you’re not like, in love with me though, right?”

Brian bursts out laughing. “God, no.”

Jae heaves a sigh of relief despite the fact that he finds himself thinking about how good Brian looks in this light. “Oh thank god. ‘Cause the last thing I need is a really old guy being head-over-heels in love with me.”

“Stop flattering yourself,” Brian says, hitting the hazard light. He reaches into the pocket of his coat, fishes out a business card. “Think of it as a business transaction. You help me enjoy my last few days and then pull this stupid sword out of my chest and help Sungjin arrange my estate, and I’ll give you whatever you want. Money, luck, you name it.”

Jae frowns as he looks down at the card. “Why is it YoungK if your name is _Brian_? God, that’s such a normal name for a fucking goblin.”

“ _The_ Goblin,” Brian corrects. “And K is for Kang.”

“Young Kang??? But you’re so old.” Jae bursts out laughing. “Okay. So I murder you for money--that’s really romantic.”

“You give me relief in exchange for your dreams. I think that’s pretty damn romantic. Think about it.” Brian’s expression grows serious. “And Young Kang isn’t me, it’s my brother that I lost. In case he’s out there.”

“Like a baby Goblin?” Jae frowns. “Can you do hocus-pocus voodoo shit? Like can you see my future or whatever? Just tell me what to do.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Usually, I can see how far a person lives, which life they’re on at the moment. You’re blank, though. I told you. Gods--god? I’m not sure, really. They’re tricksy.”

“Points for honesty, then,” Jae says.

“What?”

“You could’ve just told me that you see me murdering you in your future.”

“Right. I don’t think it works that way though, this whole Goblin-Groom thing. Just think about it. Give me a call when you make up your mind.”

Jae watches Brian--YoungK, his favorite singer, suddenly extremely vulnerable and oddly goofy, both strong and strange, certain and hesitant. Something about the way that his cheeks line when he smiles, the way that his voice goes from low and commanding to high and whiny within seconds, the way that there is always veiled laughter in his scolding.

“Fine,” Jae says. “I’ll _think_ about it.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “What do you want, like three dozen roses like in that Alicia Keys song?”

Jae grins, making to get out of the car. “Well, you said _groom_ so can you blame me for wanting to be courted? And I like buckwheat flowers. Least you can do for ruining the night I was supposed to see my favorite singer in concert.”

Brian watches Jae as he opens the door and steps out into the night. Dark hair blowing across pale skin, lips soft and half-hidden behind his red scarf, eyes trained on him. He tries not to feel that soft turn in his stomach, one he hasn’t felt in what feels like ages. Jae closes the door behind him. Brian rolls down the window.

“I can reimburse you for the tickets. I’ll see you soon.”

Jae opens his mouth to say something witty but Brian is already driving away. He sighs, thinking about how he’s going to explain all this to Bernard. When he turns to make his way inside, he gasps, a hand coming up to his mouth as if to catch his disbelief. The trees framing his dormitory are in full bloom, as if Spring has come in the dead of December. The bushes flower, petals falling soft and pink around him, the moonlight illuminating them: hope swallowing doubt, a drop of blood in sea of milk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone. :)


	3. War of the Foxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which death reaches out its hand--and life pushes back. Flowers, everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is after War of the Foxes by Richard Siken, one of my favorite poetry collections of all time--the poem Brian and Sungjin read is one entitled Detail of the Woods, which you can read here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/detail-woods
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“What the hell happened to you?” Bernard asks as Jae bursts into their shared dorm room. He looks up from his laptop, takes his headphones off. “I stood in that freezing press room for an hour and a half. A _they didn’t cut off my hands for prank-calling the paramedics_ would’ve been nice.”

“Sorry, dude.” Jae’s cheeks are flushed from lingering in the cold, watching the petals as they scattered into the night, watching until the flowers of spring gave into the winter again--it didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough to make him smile, to bring him warm thoughts: of the flat he and his mom shared when they first came to Seoul, of a time after Los Angeles and before the accident, of candles being lit on his birthday, of Christmases spent opening gifts and dancing around to catchy pop music.

“Well,” Bernard says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m waiting on that explanation.”

Jae sets down his things, shrugging off his thick jacket, letting his backpack drop to the ground. He plops down on his bed, sighing, feeling his muscles relax against the mattress. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Bernard frowns. “Is it going on your personal record? Is it going to affect your scholarship? It isn’t much but I’ve got a bit saved up and I’m sure that if you applied for partial financial--”

“--the scholarship is fine,” Jae says. “But I don’t think I can write the story. I mean, I didn’t even see the damn show.”

“Thank god you’re friends with me, then,” Bernard says, nodding at his computer screen. “I recorded the whole thing. Do you know what kind of torture that is from someone who just wants to live in the moment? Someone who wants to cut a boi whenever someone tries to Instagram their salad?”

Jae grins, thinks of an old Disney cartoon. “You have saved our lives, we are eternally grateful.”

“Damn right.”

“Nakjie?”

“Mmmm?”

“No sword? In the footage, I mean?”

Bernard sighs, shakes his head. “Negative.”

Jae blinks. _His groom, huh._

“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, dude,” Bernard says, his tone gentler than usual. “Maybe it’s just a stress thing. Like a psychosomatic reaction? A hallucination or something. Take it easy--things’ll pull through. You worked super hard on that last paper. You’ll get to keep the scholarship, I’m sure.”

Jae thinks of the sword jutting out of Brian’s chest--imagines wrapping a hand around the hilt, imagines pulling it slowly out of him. _Relief? Or just death and darkness?_ “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try and relax.”

Bernard turns back to his laptop. “Also, you were right about YoungK and his music. Goddamn, that’s a good set of pipes--and don’t even get me started on the arrangement, the _production_ . The guy has writing credits on _everything._ Every _damn_ thing he releases. I downloaded his whole discography on iTunes and I don’t know how much music can pour out of just one guy.”

Jae grins, his gaze falling on the poster of YoungK tacked to his wall--it’s an old one, from the Blood era: in the poster, YoungK’s singing intensely into a mic, the stage backlit as if by some explosion or supernova. _Brian._ His hair is flaxen, so blonde it’s almost white, almost silver: starlight, moon rise. _He has a lot of pain to sing about._

Jae tries to push away the memory of the sadness in Brian’s voice as he’d told him his story. “What did you like the most? Blood? Dance, Dance?”

“Those were good,” Bernard assents. “But I liked the slower songs the best. All Alone and I’ll Try and I Need Somebody? My god. I started crying. Not like, tearing up, dude--like fucking _bawling_ but it didn’t matter because everyone around me was bawling too.”

“Ah, right. I Need Somebody is my personal favorite--but I like Better, Better the best for sentimental reasons.” Jae smiles, feels toward the back of his nape, that familiar birthmark under his fingertips: the skin slightly raised, slightly pinker as though scorched or else colored in like petals from blossoms blown elsewhere by the wind. He thinks of his mom, thinks of Brian’s kind smile. He pulls his scarf closer around his neck.

He slips his earphones on, hits play on the song he’d been listening to on the way to the concert earlier that night. The chorus catches him off guard, a rush of emotion, of longing, of wistfulness he can’t quite explain pulsing through him.

The drums roll, the guitar soars, and above it all that voice, calling him, cheering him on.

 _Everyday, I lived like I was dead_  
_But you became the reason for me to get up once more_  
_You made me wanna open my eyes_  
_Your smile makes me breathe_  
_Because of you I’m better, better baby_

 

When Brian gets home, the mansion is littered with the debris of the after party: clothes strewn everywhere, the lights turned down low, people sleeping on the sofa, bright, neon floaters drifting in the pool, a couple of people Brian doesn’t know sleeping on them. There are empty glasses on the tables, underwear hanging from the grand piano, bottles of booze lying open and empty or else in danger of spilling. Brian sighs, takes a stray bottle of brandy sticking out from one of the corners of the couch, walks into his study.

He takes off his coat, sits behind his desk. He uncaps the bottle of brandy, pours himself a glass. Brian  looks down at the book that he’d been reading before he’d left to get ready for the show earlier that day, still opened to a poem he’d found particularly striking.

There’s a soft knock on the door. He looks up to find Sungjin, empty glass in hand, his blazer draped over his arm. “Mind if I join you?”

Brian nods to the bottle of brandy. “Help yourself.”

Sungjin pours himself a glass before sitting cross-legged in the chair across from Brian. “So, I kicked most of the people out--the VIPs were brought via shuttle back to their hotel, the other people were escorted home or to friends’ houses. All of the cameras with photos of things we don’t want the media to see have been confiscated or wiped.”

“You go dateless tonight? What’ll the tabloids say,” Brian jokes. “That Park Sungjin was being responsible? Le gasp.”

“Hah,” Sungjin says, grinning slyly. “Of course, _I_ didn’t do the ushering. I was preoccupied with one lady and err, one gentleman in the guestroom, of course. I simply gave the orders to security. Delegating, facilitating, that sorta thing.”

“Of course.” Brian runs a finger across the paper of the poetry book.

“You alright, Bri--err, YoungK?”

“For the nth time, you don’t have to call me that in private.”

Sungjin chuckles a little to himself, takes a swig. “So was he the real thing? Glasses kid from the show? The big Soulmate? Mr. Harbinger of Death himself?”

Brian grins sadly, taking a sip from his glass of brandy. “I think so. As to whether or not he’s willing to pull out the sword, we have no idea, of course. He didn’t seem so keen. He kept talking about murder.”

Sungjin almost spits out his brandy. “Well, he has a point. Did you like him? I mean, did you feel it? That _whatever_ that people supposedly feel when they meet their soulmate or groom or ‘the one’ or whatever?”

Brian tilts his head a little, contemplative. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve never met my soulmate before so I wouldn’t really have anything to compare it to--”

“--go via the process of elimination, then,” Sungjin says. “Did you ever feel that--whatever it is--with flings you’ve had? People you’ve been with in the past?”

Brian thinks of Jae: red scarf against soft lips, light brown eyes behind thick lenses, his smile easy, his laughter gentle despite the fact that he swore every other word. He feels familiar, he wants to say. Strange but like I know him from somewhere, like I’ve seen him, heard his melody before: like a song whose tune you know, but can't quite remember the title of. “I don’t suppose so.”

“Ah. Well, then,” Sungjin says, raising his glass, clinking it against Brian’s. “Cheers.”

“Do you think it will require love?” Brian asks, his voice sadder than Sungjin expects.

“To pull out the sword?”

“To kill me, yes,” Brian says.

“What makes you think that?” Sungjin asks, smiling a little before finishing off the last of his drink.

Brian shrugs, holds Sungjin’s gaze. “Seems exactly like the kind of thing the Almighty, the powers-that-be, the eye in the sky would think up, doesn’t it? Let’s get him to fall in love and then have it kill him. Pay for death with life. It doesn’t make sense. They--he?--should’ve just resurrected everyone I killed and had them kill me if they wanted a kind of retribution. But to get this kid mixed up in all of this. It’s almost sick, cruel. I don’t want him to suffer. I don’t want us to fall in love just to have him suffer. What would be the point? What kind of life would that be for him after? If he can kill me before there are feelings involved, I would prefer that.”

Sungjin grins. “It’s kind of beautiful, though, don’t you think? You’ve been wanting to die for so long, it’s kind of become your life goal--and to achieve it, you have to not want it. And I wouldn’t worry about the kid. I know you, Bri. You wouldn’t leave him without giving him something meaningful to hold onto. The way I see it, life is a bunch of equal and opposite reactions: life and death, love and hate, everything gives way to everything else.”

Brian narrows his eyes. “When the hell did you get so insightful?”

Sungjin shrugs. “You underestimate me. How did that one go?

 _What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless._ _  
_ _  
_ _Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else._ _  
_ _I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon._ _  
_ _  
_ _From the landscape: a sense of scale._   
_From the dead: a sense of scale.”_

Brian’s eyebrows furrow. “How did you--”

“--I can read, you know. The way I see it, you don’t have much to lose. You’ve already lost, already died, already been denied access to the peace of death. So you may as well find a sense of scale, you may as well open up your heart to whatever the woods hold. Just, of course, two cents from Seoul’s most eligible bachelor.” With that, Sungjin wiggles his eyebrows, and with a cocky grin, gets up and makes for the door. “Goodnight, Samchon.”

Brian sighs, his heart racing at the thought of Jae smiling, of Jae’s voice lilting as he barks banter at him. “I suppose you’re right. Goodnight, Sungjin.”

 

The Grim Reaper in the pitch-black suit frowns into his steaming cup of coffee. He takes a tentative sip, grimaces--it’s still too hot. His colleague sits across from him, sipping at his iced Americano and shuffling the mortality cards, a couple of other documents. They’re sitting at a cafe in Hapjeong-dong, the music ambient, the piano going decrescendo, tickling the atmosphere. It makes him uneasy.

“Cut to the chase.”

His colleague grins, his suit a deep navy blue. “Well, I’ve decided to call myself Jinyoung. I think it’s kind of stupid that we don’t have names when we get sentenced to reaping souls. I mean, who wants to be guided by Agent 922, you know? So yeah. Just thought you should know, 825. Call me Jinyoung from now on, if you will.”

825 raises an eyebrow. “You dragged me all the way here to tell me that you’ve chosen a name for yourself?”

Jinyoung shrugs. “You should try it. It’s oddly refreshing. Especially when looking for somewhere to live. You don’t have to keep explaining why your name is a number.”

“Well, I’ve lived in the same place for almost eighty years so I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” 825 blinks, doesn’t really know where this talk is going. He can feel his pocket watch ticking--three hours, twelve minutes, twenty seconds until his next assignment: the National Museum, an elevator accident.

“Ah, right,” Jinyoung says, nodding. “Well, this is what I want to talk to you about.”

He sets a blank mortality card on the table in front of Agent 825. “A lost soul. Unregistered, most probably supposed to be a stillbirth--we’re dating it back to 1996, 1997, most probably. From the report that you submitted, what with the flowers and the amount of blood at the scene, it was most likely unauthorized divine intervention. Anyway, we have a lead, but we need you to move back into Seoul. We’ve tracked the kid down to Dongguk University, take the mortality card with you, it should update soon.”

825 feels the clock reset in his pocket, turning to 00:00:00--all assignments for the day cancelled to go and search for the lost soul. _The bane of my existence._ His mind drifts back to that fateful evening all those years ago when he’d been two minutes late. Two damn minutes.

“It was the Goblin,” 825 sighs, sudden exhaustion coming over him. “I’ve been chasing this lost soul for years--and frankly, I hope I never see that meddler, Kang again. I swear to god, if I see another poster, I’m going to kick it out of spite. He was one of the most difficult, stubborn deities that I’ve ever met. And on that note, I refuse to live in this city, it’s so damn noisy--you _know_ that. I need silence: I live in Incheon, work in Seoul. I’ve been _doing_ that for years. Why can’t I find the lost soul on that arrangement? Do you know how difficult it is to find a place to live when you basically herd the dead for a living?”

Jinyoung grins. “Welcome to my life. Like I was saying, I can guide you through the legalities of changing your name if you want. They need you in Seoul because they want you to live with the Goblin, track his every move.”

“Excuse me?”

“Here is the address,” Jinyoung says, slipping a blank piece of paper across the table at him, the letters appearing in heavy, black ink. “The listing is under Park Sungjin, the Goblin’s nephew. He’s renting out one of the rooms. You just have to get that contract signed and they can’t kick you out, can’t move away to confuse you--you’ll get directions even if they move house because the ink is binding.”

“You want me--to live with him? Have you ever even _met_ this guy? I’ve never met anyone so irritatingly stubborn and drab and scathing on the soul--”

“--you’ve obviously never met yourself,” Jinyoung says, already getting up, buttoning his blazer. “I don’t make the rules, 825. Just delivering a message.”

With that, he walks out of the cafe, his navy blue figure slipping into the crowd, easy as death.

825 sighs, glances at the two pieces of paper in front of him--the cards have been dealt. He sighs. _Off to find the lost soul, then. You aren’t getting away this time, kid._

 

“A _partial_ scholarship,” Jae repeats as his adviser hands him his results, his enrollment papers for the next semester. “With all due respect, Mr. Lee, I--”

“--can’t afford partial, I know, Jae. You’ve got good grades but we operate on a ranking system--it isn’t that you did badly, just that everyone else did better. The most we can offer you is 65%. Some other kids would _kill_ for that, you know. You can get a part-time job, you can do more extra credit.” Mr. Lee adjusts his clip-on tie, drinks from his cup of instant coffee.

“Have you opened the school paper lately?” Jae asks, adjusting his glasses where they’ve begun to slip down his nose. “Because there’s just one name you’ll see under almost every headline: Park Jaehyung. Features, sports, advice--I’ve even covered the freaking _cafeteria menu_ . If I do anymore part-time work, that whole paper is going to be the Park Jaehyung Diaries. I’m a Journalism Major, Mr. Lee. Extra credit means not just extra time, but extra traveling to all sorts of crazy places. Between covering the Dongguk vs. Seoul National football game and the opening of the chorale’s holiday performances and someone finding a piece of hair in the cafeteria soup, where in the world am I supposed to find _another_ part time gig?”

“Well, then,” Mr. Lee says. “Maybe you should just quit, Mr. Park.”

“Excuse me?”

“You seem pretty resolved to fail. You didn’t even ask me how much you're going to need to scrape up or whether I knew people who could get you a good part time job, you leapt right to the excuses. There are a million chicken-and-beer places out in Hongdae, there are a billions of samgyeupsal places--didn’t your friend Bernard use to work at one of those before he started volunteering at the Student Media Office? Maybe he can help you out. In any case, you’ve got until the end of the week to make up your mind and send in your confirmation with fifty percent of the down payment, at least. Goodluck.”

With that, Mr. Lee gathered his papers, stacking him on his desk in a way that seemed to say _we’re done here._

“Okayyyy, then,” Jae says, stuffing his papers into his bag and getting up to leave. “I’ll let you know.”

 

 

The walk back to the dorms is dreary, longer than usual. Jae tries to enjoy the campus, tries to point out things that he loves about it: the trees, the wide roads, the way that everything is busy, bustling with life. But there is a sinking feeling of dread that he can’t quite seem to shake, one that’s followed him around since his mom passed. The thing that he never tells anyone is that it had been his birthday, that he had talked to her in that state between life and death, that she had been silver and shining and his last wish was for her to live forever--a wish that the heavens had obviously denied. She’d bid him goodbye, she’d told him to take care, she’d told him everything would be okay. And as soon as she’d left, Jae had found death waiting on his doorstep: death in a pitch-black hat, death asking him questions about the night he was born, death telling him it was just a matter of time.

He’d been saved by his aunt coming to pick him up: when death comes knocking, move house. The old saying was true--or seemed true, but it didn’t make room for _out of the pan and into the fire_ \--which is what Jae would be doing if he moved back to Ilsan to live with his vile aunt and his cruel cousins. He could escape death, but he couldn’t quite escape the turmoils of life.

He takes the long way home, thinking about the past week, the past few days. He’d watched the YoungK concert footage more than ten times now, was still sad that he’d missed the performance. _Shouldn’t you be happy that he’s your groom? Well, supposedly._ Jae sighs, pushing the thought of it out of his mind. Brian’s calling card sits heavy in his pocket. _It could be so simple._ His thoughts drift back to his mom, her gentle voice, her soothing smile. _Except it never is, is it?_

He rounds the corner to the dorm, remembers how just a week before, the entire front yard had been full of flowers, the petals falling like rain. He shakes his head. _Stop being stupid._ And then he stops short, his blood running cold as he realizes who--what--is standing at his doorstep. He’d know that figure anywhere: shoulders square, frame lean, the outline of his black hat stark against the afternoon light. Death in a suit, death in leather shoes, death holding a pocket watch.

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look._

Jae pretends not to see, pretends that his heart isn’t racing under his layers of clothing, that his palms aren’t sweating. He makes to open the door, but death catches on his sleeve.

“I know you can see me.”

A chill goes up his spine: that deep voice, those cold hands.

Jae avoids his eyes, ignores him, but finds that he can’t move, that he’s frozen, rooted where he’s standing.

“You aren’t supposed to be here. Your mother got off on borrowed time--there was an intervention for her, but not for you, do you understand? You’re unlisted, you need to give me your name so I can--”

“--give me a date of death? So you can kill me now? Well, I’m not going to give it to you. You’ve already taken everything else and you can’t have my life--”

“--your life isn’t yours to give. It belongs to the system, to the bigger order of things. By being here, you are disrupting a balance, you’re creating an accident--”

“-- _I_ didn’t fucking save me,” Jae says, anger raging through him. “So why do _I_ have to pay for another thing that I had nothing to do with? I’m not the one who made me unlisted or whatever, so fine, if I should die, then kill me. Just be done with it. I’m not the one who intervened so why do I have to pay the goddamn price--”

“--he’s right.” The voice is resonant, firm, resolute. They look up to see Brian walking toward them, his coat catching in the winter wind, his eyes serious, staring into death’s eyes. “Let him go, 825. I’m the one who meddled, you talk to me.”

825 sighs. “Of course _you’re_ here. Don’t you think that you’ve done enough? And now they want me to live with you--”

“--what?”

“This soul isn’t yours, Kang,” 825 says, ignoring the question. “You saved his mother on the pretense of prayer, fine. You wanted to extend her life so she could take care of her son, fine. But you didn’t tell me that she was with child. You didn’t tell me that the child was unborn, that he was unspoken for--”

“--he is spoken for.” Brian's expression is serious, his eyes unblinking, shining as the sun sets, slipping into the horizon.

Jae turns to look at Brian, eyes wide. “Wh--”

“What, exactly,” 825 asks pointedly, "are you trying to tell me?”

“He’s my groom,” Brian says simply. “Stick that to your pretense of prayer--the exception of doing and undoing. Death can’t touch an instrument of undoing until the deed is undone or if conditions are sure to be unmet. I’m sure that’s somewhere in your handbook or like, tablets or whatever. He is my groom, he has yet to pull out this sword--and once he does, he won’t count as unregistered anymore, will he?”

825 gapes at him. “Still, I mean--he hasn’t made his choice--the mortality card would update--”

“--I have,” Jae says, meeting Brian’s eye. His heart thuds in his chest as Brian's gaze softens, as hope slips into his expression, lips almost smiling, mouth almost forming a _thank you_. “I accept your proposal.”

825 sighs, feeling the ink as it spreads on the paper: the script curling into a single word--Exception. “Another waste of time.”

“Get your things,” Brian tells Jae, nodding toward the dorms. “You have to move. Tonight.”

Jae bolts as soon as he finds he’s able to move, running into the dorms to pack his bags, barely able to leave a note for Bernard.

“You can’t protect him forever.” 825 waits for the other card--the one with instructions to move into the Goblin’s house--to update but it doesn’t. The assignment is still on, the clock still set to 00:00:00. _Why? Why do I have to go?_ He's barely able to finish that thought when another card appears in his pocket: Kang Younghyun. The date of death still unlisted except for the year: 2018. _Ah. Of course._

“Don’t tell me what to do or for how long to do it. You can have my death--which will be soon. But while I’m still alive, you don’t get to boss me around, Grim Reaper.” Brian says the last two words like they’re an insult. “Whatever you did your past life, it must be terrible.”

“Well, I can’t remember,” 825 says. “So it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I suppose not,” Brian concedes. “Now, get going. I’m done arguing with you.”

825 looks at him and for once, feels his heart flood with a kind of pity. To remember is a different kind of hell, he supposes.

“Very well. Until next time, Goblin.” And with that, 825 disappears, slick as a shadow.

Jae bursts through the doors, duffel bags and backpacks, two Chicken Little plushies in tow. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, scared. “Is he gone? Will he really not be able to find me?”

Brian smiles a little sadly, reaching out to take one of Jae’s bags, stuffing one of the plushies under his arm. “Not while I’m around.”


	4. You Drink Light With Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the deal is struck and there’s a lot of moving house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a line from the poem Introduction To Quantum Theory by Franny Choi which you can read here: http://www.theadroitjournal.org/issue-twenty-franny-choi-the-adroit-journal/
> 
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>  [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

They drive up to one of the fanciest buildings that Jae has ever seen. Everything is done up in pale marble, the finishings a very fine, minimal rose gold. The drive over had been quiet but pleasant in its own way: they listened to the radio--a show on which the DJs were talking about winter and myths surrounding snow. They played songs that were a little bit sentimental. Jae is only relieved Brian hadn’t asked him to pick the songs. 

All his favorite songs are YoungK’s--and really, who would want to marry someone who only listens to their body of work on loop? 

Not that they’re going to get married. Not that Jae is thinking of marrying him. Not that that’s what this whole contract thing means. Maybe groom was like, eighties lingo for   _ bro.  _

Brian pulls up to the driveway of the hotel, instructs the bellboy to bring up Jae’s things, nods to the valet. He leaves the keys in the ignition. 

Jae steps out of the car, blinking up at the building’s revolving doors, spilling light as it turns.

“Pretty, huh?” Brian asks, grinning.

“Yeah. Top of the art for sure,” Jae says, his voice coming out softer than he’d like, the awe in his tone unmistakable.  _ Stop acting like a baby.  _

“Top of the  _ line _ , you mean?” Brian corrects.

“Right. That one."

“When I first had one of these built, I used to just kind of spin around for hours,” Brian says, grinning. “Walk in, walk out, walk back in--and repeat. Just enjoy the ride.”

Jae snorts, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. “What were you, like, four?”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “No. I was around 563, I think. Or 561? Something like that. The year when prohibition became a thing in America. That’s why I thought Toronto would be the wiser choice to start a hotel business. You could throw parties without someone trying to raid your establishment for a bottle of gin every two minutes.” 

“Dude,” Jae says, sighing. “I really hope you’re not lying to me about the whole Goblin thing because that would be the creepiest headline ever: VETERAN SINGER ASKS COLLEGE KID TO LIVE WITH HIM USING GOBLIN MYTH MODUS OPERANDI.” 

“Not as creepy as COLLEGE KID INSISTS FAVORITE SINGER HAS BEEN STABBED TO GAIN ACCESS TO HIS DRESSING ROOM--”

“--I did not do that to--” Jae’s eyes are wide, glasses slipping off his nose, lips formed into a soft o-shape of shock.

“--I know,” Brian says, almost doubling over with laughter. “You should’ve seen your face.” 

Jae grins despite himself, not used to being on the receiving end of savage jokes. _I’ve been living with Bernard too long._ He likes how Brian’s laugh sounds, likes the way his cheeks puff up and his eyes crinkle. “Who’s the potty mouth now, grandpa?” 

“Touche,” Brian says as they cross the lobby toward the elevator bay. Once there, Brian hits the up button. “Also, you’re not coming to live  _ with  _ me.”

“So we’re at a hotel because--oh dude, no--that’s creepy,” Jae says, looking around, taking in the swanky decor, his thumbs finding the hoops on his backpack straps--an old nervous habit--as they wait for the lift. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I barely know you.” 

Brian rolls his eyes. “No, you pervert. I’m getting you your own place. Like I said, I own this building so you can have one of the suites. For as long as you like.” 

The lift opens. They step inside. Brian hands Jae a small card with a golden flower embossed on it. He gestures to the small sensor on the button panel. Jae scans it. The P19 button lights up. 

“That’s your keycard--it’s unique so don’t lose it. I’ll have Sungjin bring you to school at whatever time you need and I’ll pick you up after. What time do your classes end?” 

“Dude, I can take the train--”

Jae trails off as the double-doors open and he finds himself in the most beautiful place that he’s ever seen. Everything is pristine: the walls are white, the light ambient, just-warm-enough, the couch is huge, the fabric of it a rich cream color--it’s covered in throw pillows of aquamarine, turquoise, teal. There’s a small kitchenette off to the side, with a countertop that doubles as a dining table. Jae takes in the sight of the high-end coffee maker, microwave, small stove, expensive-looking cookware.The refrigerator is one of those fancy ones with a window for the beverages. He can see through the frosted glass: the fridge is well-stocked. 

Jae drops his backpack on the couch, touching the soft fabric. “Jesus.”

“Sorry it’s one of the smaller suites,” Brian says, checking the cupboards, the glassware, the minibar. “The others were booked but it should do. You can do whatever you want here, but I’d prefer it if you study, focus on your hobbies. Concentrate on what you want to do, what you want to be. Like I said, I’ll help you achieve your dreams for helping me achieve mine. We can hammer out the details of the contract tomorrow.”

“Is that why you want to pick me up at school?” Jae asks quietly, touching his fingertips to the marble countertop. “So that we can negotiate?”

Brian frowns, eyebrows furrowing. There is a sadness in Jae’s voice that he doesn’t quite understand--it makes him sad too, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on either. “Well. Not really. I just thought you could probably use a ride and it’s on the way. Also, I don’t want to take anymore chances with the Grim Reaper and the whole Death Bureau.” 

Jae looks up at him. “Oh.” 

“Just don’t do like...dirty stuff in here,” Brian says in a stern but gentle voice. “I mean. I know you’re an adult and it’s not that I don’t trust you but as far as I can tell from what small interactions we’ve had, you didn’t strike me as someone who has a boyfriend--or girlfriend--so--casual encounters might put you in danger and--”

“--I don’t,” Jae says slowly. “Have anyone, I mean. Like. Not even parents, dude. And if I did, I don’t think that they would approve of me moving into a stranger’s suite, anyway.” 

“Right,” Brian nods. “Well, you can invite your friend over. The one you were with at the concert.” 

Jae laughs. “Sure. I’ll tell him  _ yo, Bernard, remember YoungK? He’s basically my sugar daddy now because some vessel of death is after me and that’s the only way that I can get away? Oh and also, I’m supposedly his groom and his cause of death but I’m so broke that I can’t really refuse when he tells me he’ll make my dreams come true in exchange for his which is, BY THE WAY, TO DIE. _ ”

“I’m not your sugar daddy.” 

Jae raises an eyebrow. “So I just say...generous patron? You know that makes it sound even creepier.”

“Or,” Brian suggests, grinning a little to himself at the thought. “You could lie a little bit and just say that we hit it off, that we decided to date. That it’s a secret because people will feel weird about it.”

Jae feels his cheeks heat up. He looks down at his feet. “But wouldn’t that be--” 

“--well, I mean. Between that and  _ sugar daddy _ \--”

“--yeah, boyfriend works. Okay, I’ll tell Bernard that, then.”

They watch each other. Brian watches Jae fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater, the hems of his scarf. Jae watches Brian and the little smirk playing on his lips.  _ What does it mean? Fondness? Reproach? Apprehension?  _

“Try and relax,” Brian says as if reading his mind. 

Jae flinches. “I am. I’m relaxed. Super chill.”

“I know how terrifying it can be to see one of those--entities. Grim Reapers blah, blah, you think that death would get more creative and stop dressing them in black. I mean, live a little. Drink some of the wine, take a bubble bath. Listen to some David Bowie.” 

“Right.” Jae looks around, not being able to help feeling a little glad, feeling a little bit relieved. He looks at Brian, realizes that oddly enough, he doesn’t want him to go. “Will you have dinner with me, then?” 

Brian holds his gaze, feeling a little tremor in his heart as he watches Jae’s hopeful smile, his red scarf hanging almost undone around his neck, his hair a mess from the rush of packing. 

“Sorry, is that weirdly forward?” Jae blinks. “Sorry, it’s just I’ll be all alone in this huge suite and usually Bernard and I eat dinner together and I’m not used to--”

“--okay.” Brian sighs, reaching over to fix Jae’s scarf, tucking and folding it until it’s snug, until the scarlet frames his cheeks just right. He offers Jae his arm. “I have to warn you, though. Been a while since I’ve had dinner with anyone other than Sungjin so if my manners leave anything to be desired, sue me.”

Jae blinks, glances down at Brian’s arm before meeting Brian’s watchful gaze. There is something soft, kind about it. 

Brian smiles, nods toward the door.  “Shall we?”

Jae takes his arm slowly, trying not to notice the way that Brian touches their fingers together as he leads Jae back into the lift.

Whatever this is, Jae thinks, watching their reflections in the mirrored elevator--his tall, lankier frame alongside Brian’s slightly shorter, broader one. Milk in honey, a pleasant feeling--it isn’t so bad. 

_ Not bad at all.  _

  
  


The next morning, Brian wakes up to the sound of a car pulling up to the mansion he shares with Sungjin. He blinks up at the high ceiling of his room, the gothic patterns on the roof swimming into focus. He sighs, kicks off the sheets, and reaches for his robe, pulling it on as he walks to the window to see who it is. His eyes grow wide as he sees the sleek, black car slip through the gates, roll up the driveway. 

_ No. No, no, no, no, no.  _

He would know a car like that anywhere. It was in the little details--the way the windows bled black into the body of the car, no lines anywhere to demarcate them from the doors, the way the wheels didn’t so much roll as they  _ glide _ as if floating the smallest distance off of the pavement _.  _ Quiet as a thief in the night, moving like a knife in the dark. 

Brian rushes down the stairs, makes for the door, goes through as many portals as he can open to switch the Grim Reaper’s location, the different enchantments he could work to throw the bastard off his scent, off of the route, trying to displace the death mobile a couple of streets away, a couple of lanes down--but it was too late. It’s past the gate, those heavy, smooth tires crunching down on the gravel. 

He’s about to lock the door when he’s beaten to it by someone else who opens it wide--he looks up from the hand turning the handle and into Sungjin’s handsome, smirking face. 

“Sorry, I’ve got a friend coming over--”

“--you  _ invited  _ this...this person with the...the car?”

“Yeah.” Sungjin shrugs. “Met him at a bar. He seemed pretty cool, said he didn’t have a place to stay in Seoul seeing as how everywhere here cost an arm and a leg. So I asked if he wanted to rent the spare room.” 

“No,” Brian says, rubbing at the tension building n his temples. “How could I have raised a completely  _ oblivious _ idiot? You  _ invited  _ him here? To  _ live _ ?”

“Yeah,” Sungjin remarks, smirking smugly. “And also, just between you and me, he’s kind of hot so I was pretty stoked when he signed the lease.”

“He  _ signed the lease _ ?”

“Yup.”

“Sungjin, Sungjin, Sungjiiiiin what am I going to do with you? Do you  _ know _ the repercussions of signing a deal with one of  _ them _ ?”

Sungjin shrugs. “You said you wanted passive income while you’re here.”

“Yeah but I meant like properties and investment--”

“--isn’t this a property? You told me once it was the biggest investment you ever made because land in Seoul is like gold and that you were planning on having the spare room rented out.”

“Yeah but--”

With that, Sungjin is grinning wide again, is stepping out the door to greet their guest, volunteering to help take his suitcases. Brian groans when he sees just  _ which  _ Grim Reaper it is who’s stepped out of the car. Dark hair and sad, deep-set eyes, his mouth almost-smiling-but-not-quite as if always choosing between laughter and tears. 

“--get out!” Brian yells from the crack in the doorway, for lack of a better method of deterance. “Get OFF MY PROPERTY!!!”

At that, 825 turns to him and smiles, wide. It sends a shiver down Brian’s spine. He’d never seen him  _ smile _ before and it just didn’t seem right. Death being happy--what a fucking site. “You okay, old man?”

“Sorry,” Sungjin says apologetically, turning to 825. “My uncle’s a little bit weird. And yeah, I know. The age thing is a bit weird but it’s a complicated family.”

“Go home! Go back to your stupid tea house!”

825 laughs. It’s a deep, haunting sound. “Hey, landlord.” 

“You two know each other?” Sungjin asks, looking back and forth between them.

825 grins. “You could say that.” 

“Great,” Sungjin says, relieved. “He doesn’t adjust so well to new people so familiarity helps. He’s...an old soul”

“Oh, I’m sure,” 825 says, looking up at Brian from under the rim of his black hat.

Sungjin turns to Brian. “So what was with the weird freaking out bit if you guys were friends anyway?”

“Okay. Okay, contracts are consummated by material property. It can still be undone. Whatever you do, Sungjin, don’t give him the--” 

Brian watches in wide-eyed horror as Sungjin hands 825 a set of brass keys to the manor, knowing that it’s all fucked up now, it’s all gone to shit: because it’s one thing for death to find you, and quite another for you to invite it to live with you. A pact with death--the one bond no one breaks.

  
  


“So let me get this straight,” Bernard says slowly as he and Jae sit in front of a desktop at the Student Media Office, rearranging the text layout of the school magazine. He takes a sip from his cup of iced coffee. “You and Young K  _ hit it off _ and are now in a secret relationship which is why you’re not going to live with me anymore?”

Jae pauses, letting the cursor hover for a moment before dragging the text into the designated box. “Yup, you got that right. Your home boi is one hundred percent spoken for and will now be residing at Casa dela Brian.” 

“Who the hell is Brian?”

“That’s Young K’s real name.”

“Dude. You’re shitting me. You’re fucking shitting me.” Bernard pauses. “It’s when I found out that Lady Gaga’s real name is Stephanie. And also, does this mean they’re going to be assigning me some random person to be my new roomie?” 

“Nah, I mean. They don’t have to  _ know _ I don’t live there, right?” Jae grins. “And hah. If only I was, Bernie. You have no idea how fucking real it’s all getting.” 

“Big house?” 

“Apartment. All fancy and stuff with freaking real-ass  _ glass _ ware.” 

“Big car?"

“Yeah, AUV, custom mags, environment friendly. What the hell can’t the guy do, you know. Fancy  _ and  _ pro-renewable energy.” 

Bernard raises an eyebrow, shoots Jae a sideward glance. “So...I mean. Big…?”

Jae’s flushes crimson, almost snorts coffee up his nose. “Nakjieeesus Christ. Focus on the goddamn layout!”

Bernard shrugs. “I mean, a guy like that with all that success and stuff, you know. You’ve got to wonder if it’s to compensate for  _ something _ \--”

“--I mean it  _ looked _ ...sizable,” Jae says, not meeting Bernard’s eye.

Bernard grins, wiggles his eyebrows. “Ah, I  _ see.  _ You haven’t gone  _ there  _ yet. Understandable. I mean it’s been like, what. All of a week or so?” 

Jae grins, thinking about what  _ that  _ would entail, his imagination getting the better of him--a hand on Brian’s chest, maybe the strong line of his neck. His heart is thundering in his chest. “Right.” 

“Yo,” Bernard says, noticing Jae sitting in a wide-eyed trance. “I’m just busting your balls, chill out.” 

  
  


Jae tries but can’t quite get the image of kissing Brian out of his head. Not that it hadn’t occurred to him as a teenager--he’d been a  _ huge _ fan--but it’s different now, knowing him, having so much...material to work from. It’s the same spool of thought that runs through his head when Brian picks him up from school later that afternoon, when they have a conversation about Jae’s classes and film theory and their favorite movies, when he listens to Brian’s anecdotes about having seen Marilyn Monroe once as she made her escape into a limousine waiting at The Plaza in New York, as they walk into the apartment and Brian pours them both drinks: a gin martini for himself, a pink daiquiri for Jae. He notices just how  _ alone _ they are, how Brian walks and talks easy through the space. It takes him a moment to register that Brian’s turning on the pan, showering olive oil onto a skillet, laying some lean, seasoned pieces of meat from the chiller onto the hot surface.

“Why are you cooking?”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to cook in an apartment I own.” 

Jae shrugs. “I dunno. I just….I mean, don’t you have a house of your own?”

“Oh,” Brian says, turning off the flame. “Well. It's kinda occupado at the moment. Sorry, if you want personal space--”

“--no,” Jae says quickly, reaching over to turn the stove back on. He brushes close enough to smell the perfume off of Brian’s coat, to feel the soft fabric of his sleeve against his cheek. “No, I mean. It’s nice. It’d be nice to have company for dinner again.” 

Brian tilts his head a little, smiles. “Alright, then. You wanna go set the table?” 

  
  


Dinner is pretty fucking fantastic. Jae isn’t quite sure what he’d expected--but whatever it was, it hadn’t been for Brian to be funny, ridiculous almost, pulling strange faces, using odd voices to impersonate the people he described in his stories: his friends from Los Angeles, his childhood friends in times so ancient Jae doesn’t understand half of the stuff he’s talking about. By the end of it, they’re standing side-by-side at the sink, doing the dishes, their hands soapy and rubber-gloved. 

“You don’t have to do the dishes with me,” Jae says. “I mean I’m used to it. I don’t know if I ever told you this but after my mom died, I lived with my aunt and cousins and basically did all of the washing up.” 

“Why?” Brian asks, passing Jae a soap-lathered bowl. “I mean, chores didn’t rotate between you guys?”

Jae shrugs, rinsing the bowl, setting it on a rack in the drier. “Well. You know. I mean, you can’t expect people to take care of you for free. When my mom died, I didn’t really have anywhere to go and they took me in so I was grateful even if from an outside perspective it might seem unfair.” 

Brian nods. “What was your mom like?”

“Amazing,” Jae says. “I mean she was crazy--super fierce and always calling me out on my bullshit because I was a super allergy-prone, accident-prone kid who just happened to love pets and like rolling around in the dirt, but she was awesome. She was a huge fan of yours. Not to sound like a creep but I kind of grew up on your music because of her.” 

Brian feels a strange tingle of familiarity, an odd sense of dejavu or something like it--but only at the edges, not quite catching. A song, the sunset, a red scarf fluttering in the wind. When he speaks, his voice is a little quieter. “What was her favorite song? I can play it for you if you want. There’s a guitar in the living room.”

“It’s embarrassing, let’s talk about something else,” Jae says, biting on his lower lip in hesitation.

“Why is it embarrassing?” 

Jae blinks, meets Brian’s eye. “I don’t want you to think of me as a child.” 

Brian smiles slowly, finding himself unexpectedly charmed by the way that Jae is frowning, the way that his eye twitches a little bit when he’s worried, the way that he looks in that apron, those rubber gloves. “Leave the dishes.” 

“What? No, I’ll--”

“--I don’t think of you as a child.” Brian says, eyes serious. “Now, let’s play some music.” 

  
  


Brian plays a couple of songs--Jae’s favorites, mostly. They sing along together, Jae trying out different harmonies he’d only until then practiced in the shower. Brian doesn’t say anything but he’s impressed. Jae doesn’t say anything but he hopes Brian is impressed. There’s a record player, a couple of old vinyls. They play some of the older hits, mostly Queen and Bowie. Brian likes how Jae laughs because it’s contagious, he finds himself doubling over as Jae lip syncs to the  _ I see a little silhouetto of a man scaramoosh scaramoosh can you do the fandango _ , finds himself joining in on the  _ THUNDER BOLT AND LIGHTNING, VERY VERY FRIGHTENING MEEEE _ ! 

“I haven’t laughed like this in the longest time,” Brian manages, clutching his stomach. His cheeks hurt from smiling. 

“Why are you always so broody?” Jae remarks, teasing. “I mean dude, I love your music and everything but your last two records were major downers. I mean, really?  _ Good-bye Winter  _ and  _ You Were Beautiful? _ Who broke you, dude?”

Brian grins. “It comes with the territory of being eternally damned.” 

“Ah,” Jae says. “Well, is Mr. Goblin too good for jumping on the mattress and destroying the duvet while blasting some AC/DC?” 

Brian frowns. “But--”

“--oh come on,” Jae says, grinning wide, wicked as he changes the discs, the needle making a scratching sound as the first strains of Highway to Hell fill the room. 

“--I mean what if we fall or something--”

“--don’t you watch romcoms? Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game, homie,” Jae says as he reaches for Brian’s hand and pulls him into the bedroom. His hand is warm, broad and calloused but also soft, tender. 

“Okay, so, the trick is,” Jae says as he climbs onto the bed, helps Brian up. “Not to over analyze it.” 

Brian’s eyebrows furrow as he watches Jae take the first jump. The entire mattress shifts like the ocean. Brian barely catches himself from falling. He focuses on his feet as he gives the matress an experimental kick. “Okay--” 

“--Brian.”

Brian looks up. “What?”

“Think fast.” Jae hits him in the face with a pillow. 

“You’re going to pay for that.” Brian jumps, hard, the whole bed rocking under them. He grabs the duvet from under Jae’s feet before whipping him in the face with it. 

Jae lets out a peal of laughter that mingles with the sound of electric guitar filtering in from the living room. He shoves at Brian as he jumps again, again, again. Brian pushes him back. Jae’s glasses threaten to slip off of his nose. Both of them are laughing themselves silly. Brian pokes at Jae’s neck, feels his heart soar as Jae laughs, swats his hand away.

“Jesus how the hell did you know I was ticklish?” He jabs a finger at Brian’s sides, lets out an evil grin as Brian crumples like paper in a fire with the loudest laugh that he’s ever heard.

It happens in a flurry, Brian’s foot catches on the tangled duvet, his hand catching on Jae’s sweater. They fall onto the bed, Jae landing on top of Brian, Brian managing to keep them both from toppling onto the floor, a hand on Jae’s waist, their legs tangled. Brian softly pushes Jae’s glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Woah, there.”

They’re both breathless, breathing hard from exertion, faces flushed from laughter. 

“Bri?”

_ Bri. _

“Hmmm?”

“The Grim Reaper said that you saved my mom, what did he mean?”

Again, that dejavu, that rush of feeling, but this time complete, absolute. Brian’s heart jumps in his chest as he realizes what it is that he’s seeing: both the past and the present at the same time--that afternoon all those years ago when he’d given up those years of his life to save a woman he didn’t know, a woman with a red scarf and a baby that was yet to be born; but also, Jae’s future unfolding in front of him like a map--the job at the chicken shop, a pretty man with a lovely but sad smile with a familiarity that Brian can’t shake, and then further still, Jae dressed up in a ballroom of some sort, dancing with someone else. Someone who isn’t him.

“Bri?” 

Brian blinks and the vision is gone. His heart sinks a little despite already knowing-- _ of course, for this to work, it has to end with me dying.  _ He does his best to smile. “Ah. Well, I guess it’s time I tell you a story--and my theory as to how you and I are linked.” 

Jae smiles, relieved. 

He gets off Brian, sitting up, cross-legged, eager. Brian follows suit, somewhat reluctantly, the absence of Jae’s weight somehow strange, an unbearable lightness like stuff he’d only read about in books. 

Jae meets Brian’s gaze. “Go on, I’m listening.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know, but real life has been super busy and will continue to be so for the following months. I hope to update every Tuesday for all my fics (meaning they'll have to take turns). Thanks for your patience and readership, you guys. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. :D


	5. They Begin To Understand The Bargain That They've Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terms are laid out--a beautiful man crosses a bridge and tears are shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a line from I Can See Right Through You by Kelly Link, which you can read here: https://www.mcsweeneys.net/pages/i-can-see-right-through-you
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)
> 
> PS Ao3 keeps fuxckng with my italics and things so yeah. I'll fix those tomorrow.

“Rough night?”

Brian lets out an exasperated groan as he walks in through the front door. He looks up to see 825 sitting cross-legged on the sofa, reading the paper. It takes Brian a moment to register the fact that he isn’t wearing his suit, is instead wearing matching black silk pajamas under a black, velvet robe. A black sleeping mask rests on his head, holding his hair back--even then, silk-smooth, not a single strand unperturbed. He has the paper turned to the obituaries. __Of course.__

“Nice pajamas. Not cliche at all,” Brian says, taking off his coat, hanging it up by the door. “And also, I’ll accept your tenancy because I have no choice but what I do is none of your business.”

“You mean who--”

Brian lifts a hand--a nearby vase hurtles toward 825. 825 holds up a hand, stops it an inch from his head, grinning but not looking up from the paper. He moves his hand as if directing an orchestra, fingers graceful as they direct the vase gently down onto the waiting end table. 

“You wound me.”

Brian smirks. “Not nearly as much as I’d like.”

“Are you always this rude to your guests? Wasn’t it barbaric behavior that got you into this whole mess in the first place?” 825 lifts a finger. The silver plate cover lifts gracefully off of the dishes laid out on the dining table. “I waited for you to have breakfast and everything.” 

Brian tries to ignore him--but he __is__ tempted by the sight of fluffy scrambled eggs, by the smell of bacon wafting toward him.

“You’re not my guest.”

825 smirks, knows its working. He flicks his wrist and the red button on the coffee machine lights up. The smell of coffee brewing fills the air.

“So. Breakfast? After selling me short on a lost soul, you’d think the least you could do would be to share a damn meal with me.”

Brian ignores him, thinks of the events of last night--the last thing he wants is to have that information somehow slip into the Grim Reaper’s knowledge. __It’s none of his damn business.__

Because what the hell would 825 have to say if he’d found out it was the most vulnerable Brian had let himself be in a while: he hadn’t meant for it to happen, had just intended on making sure that Jae had a proper dinner--and if he’s being honest, on biding time until 825 had gone to bed (whenever the hell that turned out to be; does death sleep?).

They’d talked for far longer than Brian intended, far longer than Brian would have liked--the problem being precisely that he liked it.

He’d told Jae about that fateful afternoon all those years ago, about the bargain struck, about why it was their lives were interlinked. Borrowed time, credit, a loan with interest.

Jae’s eyes, sad but also sparkling with amusement. His back as he sat slouching so they were at eye-level, making the shape of a question mark like the one forming in Brian’s mind.

__Is this how it happens? Will I fall in love?_ _

Brian had forgotten to bring up the contract. Time ran by like a train through a countryside and neither of them had noticed. They’d fallen asleep mid-conversation and had jolted awake, both of them asleep on opposite ends of the bed, when Sungjin walked into the apartment, ready to pick Jae up, and had ended up screaming and covering his eyes when Brian had answered from the bedroom.

The earlier part of the morning was all hesitant smiles and shy conversation, Brian walking Jae until Sungjin’s car, trying not to do anything odd but wanting very much to make sure his red scarf was snug, that he had everything he needed.

 __Careful--you’ve been here before_ _ __._ _ __Everyone you love, you eventually bury._ _

825 sets his paper down, giving up on a response from Brian. He walks toward the dining table.

“Don’t eat, then. I’m starving.”

Brian’s stomach grumbles. __Fuck it.__

Brian rolls his eyes, but follows suit, taking his seat at the opposite of the end of the table. They fill their plates with food. Brian can’t resist showing off a little too, has the coffee pot drift toward them, pouring them their fill mid-air before the coffee cups drift artfully down onto delicate doilies in the shape of white carnations.

For a moment, there is only the sound of silver clinking against china. The sound recalls a kind of familiarity that Brian can’t quite pinpoint. He looks up at 825--there is something about him: something about the way that he holds himself, the way that he holds his fork aloft elegantly as he spoons food into the mouth. Something about it makes Brian want to start up a conversation despite himself, in the same way dining with someone the same age as your parents makes you treat them like your parents.

“So,” Brian says. “Why’d the bureau send you here? I thought they’d given up on Jae and all that lost soul bullshit.”

825 lets out another one of his spine-chilling laughs. __That is strangely familiar too.__  “That’s cute. How much you worry about him, I mean.”

“I need him to be here so that he can pull this fucking sword out of my heart.”

825 meets his eye. “It’s not him I’m here for.”

Brian’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. He lifts a hand as if to upend the table--instead sends the pot of coffee to hover above 825’s head. It tilts slow, the black liquid sloshing dangerously against the glass lip. “If you touch a single hair on Sungjin’s head--”

The Grim Reaper is unfazed. He blinks slow, long lashes brushing his porcelain cheeks before he holds up a finger, draws figure-eights in space. His knife lifts itself from where it’s sitting on the cloth napkin by his plate, does a loop through the air before it stops short of Brian’s throat.

__Cold war._ _

“--you’ll be glad to hear, General Kang, that I’m here to collect you when the time comes. Which it seems it finally is. Congratulations.”

“Ah. Of course.” Brian sighs, takes a sip from his cup of coffee. He makes as if to reel a fishing line in, the coffee pot landing soft on the table.

He thinks of Jae, thinks of the way the delicate skin at the hollow of his throat turns pink from the warmth of his scarf in the heating of the apartment. Brian wonders if he’s okay, if Sungjin has paid for his tuition like he’d told him to, if he would consider having dinner with him later.

825 tilts his head in confusion, his smile faltering. The knife clatters to the ground.

Brian jolts to attention, catches the odd expression on the Grim Reaper’s face. “What are you staring at?”

825 squints. “You’re an idiot.

Brian raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

825 smiles sadly, his hands making as if to pluck a berry from the bramble. Brian feels something soft come away from behind his ear. It floats above them until 825 lets it go and it flutters down between them on the table.

A cherry-blossom, more red than pink, more blood than milk, more heart than thought.

Red for love, for desire, for want.

__Red for rage. Never again._ _

Brian feels his heart sink.

825 turns his attention back to his food.

“For someone whose records talked about being jaded and let down, you sure do wear your heart on your sleeve, Goblin.”

“I don’t--”

“--oh come on,” 825 says, meeting his gaze before taking a long swig from his cup of coffee. He can’t help but chuckle a little at the effort Brian is making not to blush. “You’re in bloom, for fuck’s sake.”

 

 

Across the city, in the part of Sinsa-dong that stops short of the Han River, where the road crests, curves into of the Hannam Bridge, a beautiful man sits alone in his posh chicken-and-beer shop. His hair is honey-brown, his skin smooth like gold under milk, his eyes brown and almond-shaped, framed by thick lashes. The shop is well-furnished and pristinely kept: the awning is Robin’s egg blue-on-white, the chairs are upholstered in high-end ivory pleather, the tables and wooden fixtures all the same well-varnished light wood.

He sighs, sitting cross-legged by the window, watching strangers walk past as if his shop is invisible.

The chicken shop is almost perfect: it’s a business that he’d set up off the small fortune he’d made from years of modelling, leaving that career behind to pursue his one true love: the culinary arts. It’s beautiful (like him) and comfortable and the temperature is just right. The supply cabinet is well-stocked, the chimes hanging by the door make a pleasant tinkling sound--but they only ring twice a day: when the beautiful owner arrives and when he leaves.

The shop is empty.

Before him on the table is a small bowl of white radish pickled in vinegar. He picks at them with chopsticks, plopping every piece onto his tongue with care before biting into it with a crunch, relishing the way the vinegar flavor explodes on his tongue. It’s perfect, he thinks: he’d put thought and hard work into everything, checking and double-checking the recipes, making several batches, even for this seemingly meager side dish. He lets out another deep breath, looks longingly at passersby.

If empty begets empty, how do you fill a cup?

 _ _Maybe I should hire a part-timer.__  The longer he thinks about it, the better a plan it seems. If not a customer, then at least someone to talk to. Maybe it would make the shop look more lively, more approachable.

There’s money enough--and at this point, what does he have to lose?

He smiles, glances around at the exquisite shop interior. He is happy in a way, proud of himself, for taking this chance. Smiling, he makes up his mind, types up the job ad on his phone.

URGENT HIRING!!! Part-Time Worker Wanted For PirriePirrie’s Exquisite Chicken & Beer, must be fun to talk to and love eating food for free. Wages negotiable, no experience needed.

 

 

Brian is restless the rest of the week. He goes from meeting to meeting in a daze--facts and figures about the profits from their different businesses (the record company, the hotels, the various properties and other stocks in which they had peripheral interest) that would ordinarily interest him fly over his head.

His mind keeps coming back to the flower, sitting red against the white marble of the dining room table.

The thoughts and questions run through his mind like a magician pulling knotted silk handkerchiefs out of his sleeve: endless and tied to one another.

 __What if he fell in love? What if that was his fate? What if it broke Jae’s_ _ __heart_ _ __?_ _ __What if it broke his before he died? What if he didn’t want to die anymore?_ _

He goes through cycles of anxiety, anger, and joy in turns--he thinks of how unfair it is to burden someone with love, to want to die his whole life, only to have him want to live when he can finally die. It was sick, really--and ingenious, in a way. He wakes up from troubled sleep, always worried, always waiting for something bad to happen. He goes through the day irritated, in moods prone to anger (much to Sungjin’s chagrin).

And then he picks Jae up and the day lifts off of him like a plastic bag pulled off of someone dying for air. Jae laughs like the world depends on it. Jae tells stories like he’s __sharing__ them, letting Brian take a step into his world, letting him become a part of these anecdotes, these fond memories. And he listens like Brian is the only person in the world. He sings Brian’s songs softer, more gently.

Brian goes to bed thinking he’s going to stop thinking about him.

He finds himself thinking of Jae more and more, his days marked by that time of day when the sun is orange and watery in the sky, when he pulls up to Jae’s building and he’s standing there, waiting with his red scarf wound around his collar, eyes lighting up when he spots Brian’s car.

It becomes a kind of routine: they have dinner together, hang out for a while as Jae finishes his homework and Brian writes songs in the living room.

He waits until Jae says he’s about to head to bed before he heads home.

Sometimes they hug.

Brian resists the urge to kiss him--even on the forehead, the cheek.

Any more and he would fall apart.

He tells himself this isn’t the case.

Instead, he dreams about it: Jae laughing softly against him, his smile lighting up the entire room. Jae’s hands warm as they brush against his cheek. Jae sleep-talking, Jae burning the toast, Jae trying to swear less and saying __fuckfuckfuck__  whenever he slips a __goddamn__  into a sentence. Jae telling Brian about his hopes, his fears, his dreams. Jae crying, a tear slipping down his soft cheek. Brian telling him to hush. Brian wiping away his tears. Brian slowly tipping Jae’s chin toward him, closer, closer until they’re close enough to touch.

Each time, Brian jolts awake and his heart aches it its bone cage, his soul lurching around the cursed sword.

 

 

Today marks the second week Brian’s put off their meeting to iron out the terms. Today before leaving home, Sungjin had asked him what he’d intended--reminding him about his plans to take a trip to the beach, to live out this life, to fake his death again and then start over somewhere else, asking him if he was going through with that or if he intended to do the dying thing instead. Today, Brian swears they’re going to talk about it.

If not for himself, then for Jae. To spare him the heartache.

He pulls up to the drive of Jae’s building, finds himself checking his reflection in the mirror, finds himself double-checking whether he’d put on perfume, whether he’d asked for the cars to be cleaned that morning.

Jae trots toward the car, smiling wide as he hops in, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Good day?” Brian asks, raising an eyebrow.

Jae beams. “Per-fuckin-fecto. I’m unstoppable these days. You know how they gave me back the full scholarship and everything a few weeks back?”

“Yeah?” Brian asks, wondering whether he should tell Jae about the paying for tuition thing but decides against it--another complication.

“Well __today__ , they said that Nakjie and I actually, really, truly have tickets to go and see Nicki Minaj next weekend because they decided to pay us in __kind__  for the coverage we did of the lame-ass Theater Club’s rendition of A Winter’s Tale.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shakespeare?”

“No, the other part.”

“Oh.” A wicked grin spreads across Jae’s face. “Nicki Minaj LIVE IN SEOUL!!!! It’s going to be fucking bomb.”

“Wear your seatbelt.”

“Right. Okay, so what are we cooking tonight? I’m starving.”

“How did we get from Freddie Mercury to Nicki Minaj?”

Jae shrugs. “I stan queens, Grandpa.”

Brian grins. “You didn’t strike me as the twerking type.”

Jae raises an eyebrow. “Might be more to me than you think.”

Brian feels his cheeks heat up, fragments of his fevered dreams coming back to him. Jae close, warm, trembling against him. __Keep it together.__  He feels a pang of hurt in his heart as he’s reminded what it is that he has to do.

Silence hangs between them like rope strung between two ships drifting in tumultuous tide.

“Sorry,” Jae says quietly. “Was that too forward?”

Brian shakes his head, tries his best to smile but when he speaks, his voice comes out strained.

“You wanna eat out tonight? I think we should talk about the contract.”

A flash of hurt flickers across Jae’s face but it disappears in the facsimile of a second--when Brian glances at him, Jae’s grinning again, trying to look carefree, but his lips tremble ever-so-slightly, his eyes are glassier than he’d like.

“Oh yeah, sure. No biggie.”

 

825 isn’t familiar with the Sinsa-dong area. He isn’t assigned a lot of deaths around here. He wonders why he got assigned this one--this was usually Jinyoung’s territory. They’d split Seoul between them North and South of the Han. He glances down at the card. The death isn’t for two hours yet.

Now if only he knew where to find it. Usually, it was pretty intuitive: like reaching into a purse and going by feel for a pen--he usually didn’t have to look to find the place, the soul he’s looking for. But today, he’d been across what feels like a billion pedestrian overpasses, underpasses, subway exits, trying to find the right bridge to cross to get to the road on the card where the accident would happen.

This bridge is a wide one, the pedestrian end arching over traffic. Up here, the air is cool, soothing him somewhat from the exhaustion of the day. Around him, the horizon is bright for a winter day: the muted blue as if lit from behind. White clouds hang in the sky like ivory in the ocean. As he steps onto the platform, he sees a figure step onto it too from the other side: a long, white billowing coat, a deep blue sweater.

A cut out of the sky, a slice of the horizon personified.

825 squints. His heart is racing and he isn’t quite sure why.

__Is it from walking too much? I need water._ _

He walks faster, hurrying toward the other end of the bridge. The figure gets closer, closer until 825 can see him clear as day: a beautiful man, with chocolate-brown eyes framed by thick lashes, his skin like caramel glaze set off by the blue of the sky, the blue of his sweater, the white of his coat and the clouds that billow soft, slow--a good day personified.

825 can’t take his eyes off of him. Their eyes meet and his heart leaps in his chest.

He feels something building in him--like nausea or dejavu or a storm not knowing it’s skimming the ocean to gather rain. A cool gust of wind blows across them and the man’s hair flutters in the wind, falling at just the right angle into his eyes, across his forehead. He grins, running a hand through his hair.

It’s the most beautiful smile 825 has ever seen--his eyes wrinkling at the corners, the small lines like shooting stars across the galaxy. For a moment, he forgets about the assignment, forgets that he hasn’t thought about making himself invisible, forgets that he isn’t just a man looking at a man while crossing the street.

The beautiful man stops short, tilts his head in curiosity. “Are you okay?”

825 blinks, realizes his mistake, realizes the beautiful man can see him. He nods, unable to find his voice.

The beautiful man peers at him. 825’s head is swimming--something about him is familiar, overwhelming. What it is, exactly, escapes him like a kite drifts just out of range of a tornado.

“You’re crying.”

825 touches his hands to his cheeks. His fingers come away wet. He lets out a small gasp. He can’t remember the last time he cried.

The beautiful man laughs again--but softly, gently. He reaches into his pocket, hands 825 a handkerchief.

825 accepts, still in a daze. Their fingertips brush and a current of electricity passes between them.

“Sorry,” 825 says, drying his tears, finally finding his voice. “I don’t know what came over me. I saw you and I started weeping. It’s strange.”

“Who still uses the word __weeping__?” The beautiful man grins. “Wow, I mean I’m used to being picked up but that was something else--”

825’s eyebrows furrow. “--I wasn’t picking you up. I was on my way to get someone else--”

The beautiful man shoves at 825’s hand in a forceful way that catches 825 offguard.

“--fine. Keep the damn handkerchief. Enjoy picking up whoever, then.”

He turns haughtily back toward the overpass, starts to walk away.

825 feels his heart lurch. He reaches for him, fingers catching on the hem of his sleeve.

 “Wait.”

The beautiful man turns toward him. “Well? Are you going to ask for my number or what?”

825 studies him. “You’re a Reaper?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your number--”

“--like __phone__  number?”

“Ah.” 825 blinks. If he could, he would blush. “Right. Yes, please.”

The beautiful man grins. “You’re so strange. Anyway. You have a phone to take this down?”

825 shakes his head. “I’ll memorize it.”

“Oh come on.” The beautiful man sighs. “They __all__ say that. If you don’t want it, it’s fine. No hard feelings, I hope you stop crying.”

“I want it.”

“Fine. 04-328-9876.”

825 blinks. “Okay.”

The beautiful man lets out another laugh. “You’re __really__ going to memorize that and call me?”

“Yeah.” 825 feels another tear slip down his cheek.

The beautiful man reaches over, wipes away the tear.

825’s skin feels like it’s on fire--but in a good way.

“Recite it back then.”

“04-328-9876.”

The beautiful man tries not to look impressed. “You’re not going to ask for my name?”

“What’s your name?”

“Kim Pillie. And you?” Pillie sticks out his hand.

825 notices something on his fourth finger--a symbol, something he’s seen before but can’t quite place where. The sight of it makes his heart ache.

Pillie clears his throat. “What’s __your__ name?”

825 blinks, and as he takes Pillie’s hand to shake it, realizes for the first time the answer to Shakespeare’s question.

What’s in a name?

A whole fucking lot.

825 glances around him, helpless. “I don’t have one.”

Pillie narrows his eyes. “Is this the part where you ask me to call you __baby__? __Honey?__ ”

“What?” 825 panics. “Why would I--”

“--well, you’ll have to wait until the first date for that, at least,” Pillie says, smiling now. He winks. “Call me, then, Mr. No Name.”

With that Pillie turns on his heel and walks off, his white coat fluttering after him. 825 blinks, left standing with an ache in his heart and Pillie’s handkerchief still clasped in his hand.

 

They’re sitting across from each other with two steaming bowls of ramyun in front of them. There is a bowl of tteokbokki between them, a shared roll of kimbap, two beers, a bottle of soju. They’ve barely touched their food--except for the alcohol, which is almost gone.

Jae feels like he’s going to be sick to his stomach.

“I just think it’s better if we do it sooner rather than later,” Brian says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had fun. A lot of fun and if it was going to be anyone, I’m glad it’s you. But the more we wait in limbo like this, the harder it’ll be for both of us.”

Brian’s voice is steady, calm but he doesn’t meet Jae’s gaze.

Jae wants to hold him. He is thinking of Brian telling him the story of how he grew up by the sea, about how back then the world was cooler and kinder, the climate more temperate so that they could swim for as long as they liked. Jae is trying to memorize the way nostalgia makes Brian’s features look even kinder, more beautiful than they normally did. Jae is thinking of Brian laughing, of Brian in his apron at the stove, or with his rubber gloves at the kitchen sink. He is thinking of Brian cracking corny jokes, of him lingering by Jae’s bedroom door just to make sure he’d turned out the lights before he headed home. Jae is thinking of that one time, that second night, when he’d spent the night by accident: Brian had held him in his sleep--something he’d only become aware of when he’d jolted awake in the middle of the night for a glass of water. He is thinking of Brian: how he’s warm and soft and when Jae had tried to get out of bed, he had murmured his name in the depths of his slumber and told him to stay.

__No, Jae. Stay._ _

“What do you think?”

Jae bites on his lower lip to keep it from shaking. He wants to protest, wants to say __please give me a shot__ \--but he thinks of the long life that Brian’s lived, thinks of all the people that he’s loved and lost, thinks of what would happen if they stayed like this, if he passed on and Brian was left to mourn him. How much longer, then? When would he be set free? Would there be another groom? Is this a one-time thing? A test? __He deserves peace.__

“Okay,” Jae says. “I agree.”

“Alright.” Brian’s heart sinks. “Well. What are your requests then? I’ll leave it in my will and have Sungjin arrange everything.”

“A small apartment and enough money for me to travel for six months. A new laptop to be able to type on and also, I mean if it’s possible--a restraining order for my aunt and my cousins.”

“I thought you were cool with them.”

“Yeah I’m cool with them, but they’re obsessed with my mom’s inheritance money which they’re convinced I have but don’t--so yeah. I can just imagine what they’d do if they found out that I was living on my own and travelling around the world. They’d hunt me down like __that.__ ” Jae snaps his fingers.

Brian nods. “What about in the way of love?”

“What?”

“I mean obviously--do you want any spells, that sort of thing?”

“Can you __do__ that?”

“Well not __make__ people fall in love with you but I can lend you that kind of luck if you want it. That’s how I usually do it when I lend life or mess with the Grim Reapers. Lend them some luck, some time, throw in charisma--which you already have, anyway--and you have love.”

Jae shakes his head. “No. No, I think I’m good in that department.”

He lifts his gaze to meet Brian’s.

“I mean it’s not a priority.”

“Right.” Brian nods slowly. “I see. Anything more?”

“Get me a job. Not like, at your company. I mean--I want luck for job-hunting but I want to find the job myself.”

Brian’s eyebrows furrow. He remembers his vision: Jae with a job at a chicken shop, Jae without him, Jae with someone else. “You don’t need one. You’ll be loaded. I’ll make damn sure of that.”

“Yeah but I __want__ one. This isn’t going to last, as you said,” Jae says, trying to keep the bite out of his voice and failing. “And I want to rely on as little money from you as possible. I’ll just use it to get started, to wash off the guilt of having to pull that ugly thing out of your chest. But after that, I’m done. I want the rest to be stuff I worked for.”

Brian blinks back tears of hurt. “Okay.”

“When, then?” Jae’s voice cracks. “When do you want me to kill you?”

Brian turns to look outside at what remains of winter. “In a few days, the snow will stop. And nature will slowly start to bloom again. We’ll go somewhere special. Somewhere with buckwheat flowers and the warmth of the sun. We’ll do it then. The first day of Spring.”

“We should just do it at your house,” Jae says. “Or the rooftop of the apartment.”

“Well, it’s __my death__  so--”

“--yeah but I’m the one who’s going to be left behind,” Jae cuts him off. “And I like buckwheat flowers. I don’t want to think of the one person who’s made me feel safe dying whenever I see them again. So let’s do it tomorrow. Rooftop. So I can solidify my hate for the winter and keep on loving buckwheat flowers and that’ll be one less thing you can feel guilty about.”

“Okay,” Brian says, holding Jae’s gaze level. “Tomorrow, then.”


	6. That Went By, So Can This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jae and Brian attempt an execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a story called Is Your Blood As Red As This? By Helen Oyeyemi--there aren’t any available places to read it for free online but it’s from the book What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours. 
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The royal tea room was their sanctuary as children before any of them were touched by war or pain or jealousy or malice. Younghyun knew every wooden tile that lined the high ceilings of that place, the low tables made of finely varnished, intricately painted wood (in hues of red, green and blue: the elements mirrored, encapsulated) taking up exactly twenty-four squares from end to end. (Even now, even as the Goblin, even after swearing that it was better to forget if forgiveness was not an option for him or for any of them, on some nights when Younghyun is tired enough, when he is vulnerable enough, still dreams of it, feeling the smooth, heavy wood under the silk-over-cotton-over-linen of his hanbok.)

It was in that room that as children, they took up their lessons: first, just the two of them, the eldest boys of their families raised by comrades in war and peace, learning everything from basic counting and script to the complex history of their people, of their country and territory, and then later on, his little brother joining them, the trinity of their doom sealed by the hand of fate. Often times in his long life, Younghyun found himself daydreaming about the road not taken, about the what-ifs, the useless and enormous haunting of a possibility at a better life.

What if Wonpil had not been sent down by their father to the capital to study with them? What if, as planned, he would have taken up their mother’s lineage and studied weaving instead? That had always been their designation at home: Younghyun, the eldest and skilled at swordsmanship and languages, to be shipped off to the capital and trained to guard the crown prince, and Wonpil, younger and more genteel in nature, his skills leaning more toward weaving and painting, music and the arts, to stay in their province and help their line flourish there, so the House of Kang could grow where it was planted.

The thing that hurt him (hurts him still) was that it had been his idea: his brother had written him long letters about feeling restless, had detailed in sheet after sheet of parchment how he’d been feeling trapped in the provincial setting, how the skills he could learn with regard to painting and the arts were limited back home, how his tutors gave him the best recommendations but that they’d ceased to give him any kind of pleasure. What were they worth when he knew he could do so much more? He wasn’t progressing.

Reading those letters that arrived with the backs of them beautifully painted in blood-red cherry blossoms, sea-blue cloud patterns, jade-green leaf emblems, and tied together with finely-woven yellow string (the color of their house), Younghyun felt his heart lurch for his brother, felt that somehow they had been unfair in leaving him back home. It was after the tenth letter--one where Wonpil had shown off his talent in mixing reds and blues to make the most exquisite shade of violet with which to paint the wide-winged phoenix which covered the entire back of the sheet--that Younghyun had made up his mind. He’d taken care of all of it: written to the king and the court, written to their father, written to their mother, written even to the high council of their hometown, making a case for Wonpil to come and study with him at the capital.

What would help the House of Kang flourish more than ensuring that both sons were educated by the best scholars and tutors? What if they could become masters not just in swordsmanship and language but in painting as well? All of those who visited from foreign lands to trade art and skill were in the capital.

Wonpil is rotting there, Father, Younghyun had written. Send him to the capital so that both your sons may bring pride to our house.

Oh, if he could take it back now. If only he could write instead: sweetest dongsaeng, you must be patient and persist, let the storm pass.

What grief he would’ve saved them all.

And yet.

And yet, there is a part of him that doesn’t completely regret it--how could he when he knew just how much and how deeply the three of them had laughed in that tea room? Just how many nights they’d stayed up talking about life and love and the things they dreamed of achieving? They were the memories that he carried with him in his heart of hearts when he went to war later on: these are the things worth fighting for--their Jeoha, Yoon Dowoon, in his blue-and-silver robes laughing after Younghyun had passed gas too loudly, the sound and smell of it impossible to ignore, Wonpil in the bright yellow Kang colors, finally having access to paints that shone as brightly as his spirit: incandescent teals and iridescent pinks he used to draw hilarious renditions of their instructors with large heads and bulging eyes, all in neon.

Younghyun’s dreams are visceral, lucid.

He and Dowoon sat on one side, future king and his lieutenant general, shoulder-to-shoulder, elbows adjacent, and Wonpil sat on the other, nonchalantly sipping his tea as he carved pictures onto paper with his brush, his saffron-colored sleeve dipped in blood-red ink.

In his dreams, it is always the afternoon and the sun is gentle, the breeze kind as it blows in through the open rice-paper doors.

In his dreams, he doesn’t look away when he glimpses his brother’s affection for the crown prince, when he sees the small notes they slip each other when they think he isn’t looking, when he catches them huddled together under the prince’s parasol by the far end of the lake. In his dreams, he intercepts love before it begins.

But in waking, as drenched in sweat and as cold with terror as he might be, the Goblin knows that the Almighty was wrong about him: he hadn’t yet been a monster back then--because what kind of monster believed love was enough to start an eternal battle for?

No, back then, Younghyun had just been a man who hoped he could find love like his brother and his bestfriend had found. Even when the king passed away, even when he had been sent to war unprepared for that baptism by fire, even when they had fought Head Adviser Gamja tooth and nail for the wedding to take place, even when they had threatened him with execution, even when his brother had been kept from him like a prisoner in the royal house, Younghyun had renewed his vow time and again to take this war to the grave, whatever the price.

And oh, how highly all of them have paid.

Today, the Goblin has one of those dreams, but finds himself waking up afraid for different reasons. Today, there is the threat of rain in the already drab sky, his heart absent of that welcoming for death he’d been so sure of just short of a month before. Today, he wakes up knowing two things: he has found love and he is going to let it kill him.

  


Jae frowns as he checks his watch for the nth time tonight. He’s dressed up for the occasion as much as he can, anyway what with the terrible tricks that the weather had been playing on them all day--it was cold, far too cold for winter-on-the-cusp-of-spring. Under his parka, he’s wearing the only suit that he owns: it’s a bit big for him but he lets his red scarf hang as loose as the cold will allow him without dying so that Brian would know, at least, that he’d dressed up, that as angry as he may have been, all sentimentality wasn’t lost on him.

He hadn’t slept at all the night before, feeling the unease settling in his gut as Sungjin’s reminders kept popping up on his phone, in his Inbox: bank transfers, done, legal matters, done. All of it done. Done, done, done.

Like a nail in a fucking coffin.

Today, Jae had skipped school, ditching class after Sungjin dropped him off and opting instead to pick his favorite part of the Han river bank and sit there, watching the water go by while listening to all his favorite songs. _After he dies, I definitely need to find a different favorite artist._ The most painful thing about all of it being that he loved every song more dearly now, knowing all of the strife that was behind it, knowing how kind and generous and lonely Brian had been to write it, how he had written it in spite of all of the things he’d been through. It hurt him more to love him (because that’s the problem, isn’t it, the doom they both had to face) that knowing how hard Brian liked to laugh, how his nose scrunched up when he was lost to humor, when those worries didn’t weigh on his heart too heavily.

But nonetheless, Jae had thought about it, had listened in to those lyrics that had haunted him so as an adolescent: _After the day ends and I come back home, I wish there was someone who would tell me, good job, and hold me and even now, I’m alone under the moonlight. I’m alone, only the cold night air is by my side,_ and made his decision. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind. Love is thrilling but also a burden of sorts. He wants to stop being selfish. It’s exciting for him because he is young but Brian is old, must be exhausted from the memory of having lost so much, having had to sit through so much.

Too much life and not enough rest.

Jae made up his mind to be the one to lay him down, to tell him he did well. He watches the landscape of Seoul, the lights shuddering under the movement of heavy clouds that move too quickly not to unsettle anyone who looks at them. He counts three of Brian’s billboards and two of his hotels visible on the Seoul skyline.

_You did well._

With that, he hears the door of the building rooftop creaking open, hears the cadence of those footsteps that he doesn’t need to turn around to recognize.

He smiles a little despite himself, Brian’s presence still bringing him a kind of relief.

“You’re late.”

They stand face-to-face, Goblin and groom, the Seoul skyline a backdrop of lights behind them. The ancient mountains trace the night sky in the distance like giants sleeping in the black sea.

“So,” Jae says as he looks up into Brian’s handsome face, trying to keep his lips from shaking, trying to keep tears from welling up in his eyes. “You ready?”

Brian watches Jae and his gentle eyes, his kind, soft mouth. _He wore a suit._ His heart lurches in his chest at the thought of not being able to make him dinner again, not being able to pick him up from school again.

“You be good, alright?” Brian finds himself saying, his voice more tender than he intends. “I know you didn’t ask to be taken care of and I’m not trying to treat you like a kid but I just want you to know you’re almost there, you’re going to reach your dreams. I feel it in my bones.”

Jae smiles at him.

Brian’s heart aches. He wants to tell him that he takes it back, that he doesn’t want to die after all.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Jae takes a deep breath, puts a hand on the hilt of the sword. It’s cool in his palm, heavy and intricate. “You did well, Bri. I just want you to know that.”

“Thank you,” Brian whispers, closing his eyes, bracing for death.

Jae pulls.

The sword refuses to budge.

Brian’s eyes fly open.

“What was that?”

“It….it won’t move.”

“What do you _mean_ it won’t move?” 

“It won’t move.” Jae uses both hands this time, pulling with all his weight. “What’s happening.”

“Oh come on, it’s ‘cause you’re a lightweight. Come on. Just use both hands yank it out!” Brian feels the panic building.

“Okay, you pull yourself toward the wall and I’ll pull okay? One, two, three--”

Brian stumbles back against the far wall, the hilt slipping out of Jae’s hands.

“What the fuck,” Brian says. “What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Maybe there’s some kind of invocation? Some kind of ritual for this that we haven’t been briefed on?”

“Briefed on?” Brian repeats, stunned. “You think the Almighty just calls people into his office and gives them a handbook on how to die?”

Jae shrugs. “How the hell should I know!”

Brian sighs. “Well. What are we going to do now?”

An idea occurs to Jae, flipping through every comic, every fable, every children’s book about the Goblin that he’s ever read. “Wait. Okay so--”

“--yeah?”

He clears his throat, feels a blush creeping up his neck. “--it just occurred to me that I mean it’s called a _groom_ for a reason, right? I mean. I mean otherwise it’d just be called drawer of the sword like Arthur and excalibur.”

“Ah,” Brian says, catching on quickly. His face grows warm.

The air around them starts to feel hotter, more humid. Snow melts on the nearby overhang.

Jae clears his throat. “Um. So. Well. In every book I’ve ever read that had a Goblin in it. He always kisses the bride. Before he turns into a broom. I mean I’m not a girl and you’re going to die and not turn into a Dyson wireless vacuum, but the kiss might be worth a shot.”

Brian blinks, suddenly feeling more alive than ever, the blood rushing to his face. “Right. Yeah. I didn’t think of that. So. We should--”

 

 

Across the city, in the mansion Brian shares with Sungjin and 825, the two men sit side-by-side on the sofa, watching the clock.

“You’re _sure_ that it was today?” 825 asks, straightening his suit. He hadn’t gotten a mortality card yet, his schedule hadn’t updated--but he’d dressed up anyway after finding Sungjin fixing up documents at the dining table, his response to 825’s _what are you doing_ a tearful _he’s going to die today._

Sungjin blinks, tears dried now, cocktail in hand as he sits cross-legged on the sofa. The week had been busy for him: he’d not just managed to be photographed at all of the right events, a must as per his cultivated image, he’d also arranged everything for Brian at a pace no one else would attempt. Bank transfers in the middle of the night thanks to a banker he’d once had a romantic rendezvous with in Paris, documents processed at a cut-throat pace thanks to his charms and Brian’s money.

A selfish part of him had thought getting his inheritance would feel good--after all, he’d fantasized about it for so long. For years, he’d coveted that power, the power that made him privy to unlimited credit. For years, he’d daydreamed about reading his name on his uncle’s will, that whole bit about him finding his bride--or, well, groom--being a fable he grew up on.

And now that the day had come, he finds himself teary-eyed and unable to sign the damn thing until he knows for sure, until the doctors called to confirm it or Jae called to tell them that it was done.

825 lets out a heavy sigh. “I have an eleven o’clock so if this isn’t going to happen, then I’ll be going.”

“He said it was going to happen--” Sungjin holds up the document authorizing him to access his checking accounts, his credit line. “And he wouldn’t give me this if he wasn't dead serious. OH my god, he’s really going to die. I should’ve called him YoungK more.”

“Or Uncle,” 825 says, deadpan. “You could’ve called him that more. He’s ancient.”

The clock ticks.

Still no mortality card.

  


“I just want you to know,” Jae says. “That this is technically going to be my first kiss so you better make it good before you die. Because who knows how long it’ll be before I kiss anyone else.”

“No pressure, right,” Brian jokes, pretending to nod contemplatively.

Jae swats at him with his fist, pretending to throw a punch at Brian’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Brian tugs Jae closer gently by the hems of his padded jacket. He tucks Jae’s red scarf around his neck firmly, softly, brushing Jae’s hair back. The snow that’s caught in it is cold to the touch but Jae himself is warm.

“Okay. You ready?” Brian meets Jae’s gaze, taking in the exact color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, the curl of his lashes.

“Yeah.” Jae’s breath is white in the cool air.

“Okay. Well. Here goes.”

Slowly, Brian brings a hand up to cup Jae’s face, bringing him closer and closer still until their eyes flutter shut, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss. His heart jumps in his chest. Jae puts a hand on Brian’s nape and holds him there a moment longer.

_This is how it feels to be alive._

When they pull apart, neither of them can stop smiling. Jae’s grinning so his teeth show, eyes slim crescents. Brian’s looking at his feet, the apples of his cheeks almost as red as Jae’s scarf.

“Was it a good first kiss?” Brian asks.

Jae grins slyly. “I don’t know. I have nothing else to compare it to.”

With that, he tugs Brian in by the collar and kisses him again, this time a little deeper, more fiercely, mindful, as if committing it to memory. The kiss is soft and slow until it isn’t--lips opening to let tongues taste, the warmth turning into heat between them.

They’re breathless.

There is an ache in both of them that neither of them have felt in a long, long time.

It’s Brian that pulls away, his heart aching.

Jae steadies himself.

Brian shuffles his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Was that better?”

“Much better,” Jae says, a little sadly.

He looks at the sword in Brian’s chest.

“Okay. So--”

Brian’s heart sinks, but he decides to be brave. “--do it.”

Jae gives the hilt another pull with both hands, all his might. It budges just a little and Brian cries out, pain shooting through his chest for a brief moment. Jae pulls harder but the sword refuses to give way completely.

“It won’t,” Jae says helplessly, not wanting to hurt Brian anymore.

He lets go.

“But it moved,” Brian says, touching a hand to his chest. “I felt it move.”

Jae nods. “It did.”

“Do they say anything more in the books?”

Jae frowns, contemplative, until an idea comes to him--one that sounds cruel but also seems like just the kind of thing that would be at play here. “I think it’s going to happen slowly.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s going to loosen the harder it is for you to die.”

To Jae’s surprise, Brian smiles, takes a step closer.

“You mean the more in love with you I fall.”

Brian is filled with relief, knowing for sure that he doesn’t want to die today, that he doesn’t care how he has to go as long as he gets to stay a moment longer. Jae feels a tear slip down his cheek. He looks up, realizes that pale pink cherry blossoms are falling around them, that buckwheat has started to grow in the barren pots and discarded aluminum paint cans nearby.

“And vice versa."

“So I guess I’m not dying tonight.”

Jae grins. “Guess not. Poor Sungjin--”

“--what about him?”

“He did all the legal work overnight, I’ve been getting messages all day--”

“--oh fuck."

“What?”

“The credit cards. We have to head home.”

“Credit cards? Wait, what. Like, your home?”

Brian nods, taking Jae’s hand, intertwining their fingers like it’s second nature, like it’s just the order of things. Jae’s heart jumps in his chest as he follows.

“I suppose it’s time I take you home for dinner.”

With a sly smile at Jae, Brian opens the door to the rooftop, tugging Jae after him--and they go through.   



	7. blue water to fly, at least tide, at least

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tea is poured and time ripples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the poem called summer, somewhere by Danez Smith which you can read here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58645/from-summer-somewhere
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“Holy fucking shit,” Jae says as Brian opens the door again and in an instant, they find themselves standing in the foyer of a high-ceilinged mansion with marbled floors and all-white furnishings, candles burning in white-painted rustic candelabras.

“Language.”

“I mean it though. What. The actual. Fuck.” Jae looks around, blinking in the sudden light.

Long-stemmed flowers sit in marbled vases, the colors of the petals the most beautiful pinks and purples. There are chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, their light pale, a luminescent imitation of daylight.

He isn’t sure which to react to first: the fact that the house is beautiful, that he’s never been in a place that looks like _this_ , or that he’s dating someone who lives in a place like this (well, _kinda_ dating--he figures they’d iron it out later) _or_ the fact that they’d just done some hardcore wormhole-y time-and-space warp craziness and stepped _in_ to the stairwell and _out_ at the house.

Or the fact that Brian’s still holding his hand.

He opts for everything except that last bit.

“First off, how the hell did you do that? Second, yoooo. You didn’t tell me that you lived at the fucking Taj Mahal--”

“--SAMCHON!!!!!!!”

Jae is interrupted by a bawling Sungjin running up to Brian him and sweeping him up in a huge bear hug. Jae frowns a little as Brian’s hand slips from his grasp.

“You’re alive! You’re actually _alive_!”Brian lets out a squeak as Sungjin squeezes him close. He’s clutching something that looks like a bank form. Sungjin’s nose is red and runny, his face tear-streaked.

There’s an eerily familiar, sardonic voice that pipes up behind him. “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, Goblin. You’re tardy but consistent. You can’t even _die_ on time and now that this cry baby isn’t sobbing into my shoulder, I’m going to go and actually do my job.”

When Jae peers over Sungjin’s shoulder to see who it is, he lets out a blood-curdling scream at the sight of the man in black, his silhouette sharp against the white marble of the living room. He grabs Brian from Sungjin’s embrace and hides behind him, pushing him forward as one would a shield.

Brian stumbles but catches himself, ready to defend Jae. He whirls around to face 825 who is standing in his black suit, arms crossed.

“Oh. It’s just you.”

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” Jae asks, peeking from where he’s hunched behind Brian’s shoulder.

Brian sighs. “Ah. Right. Well. My brilliant nephew, who’s crying now but will probably be back to his disrespectful self once he finds out I don’t intend to die for a while so his credit line remains suspended until further notice, asked the Grim Reaper to live with us. A _tenant_ , he calls him. And we signed a contract, exchanged tokens so there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Sungjin frowns, blinks through his tears before making for his room. “Just for that, I’m going out tonight.”

“ _Live_ with you,” Jae repeats. “Like he comes here to _sleep_? Like roomie levels? Me and Bernard levels?”

“Unfortunately,” 825 replies, putting his hat on, letting his fingers smooth out the brim. “If it’s any consolation, Lost Soul, I’m not here to get you this time. You are protected by that.”

He nods at Brian. “I’m here for that one, when the time comes.”

Jae glances sharply at Brian. “I thought it wasn’t going to be tonight.”

“It isn’t,” 825 says, pulling out Brian’s mortality card. “It hasn’t updated.”

“Good,” Jae shoots back, recovering from all of the new stimuli. “Okay. Yeah, okay. That’s harmless enough, I guess. And if you take Brian, I’ll kill you.”

“I have better things to do,” 825 says in his baritone voice. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Brian finds himself flooded with relief as 825 heads out the front door, the latch clicking shut. He finds himself reaching for Jae’s hand again, tugging him toward the kitchen.

“Come on. Let’s make dinner.”

 

825 lied. He doesn’t have anything scheduled tonight--it’s his night off, Jinyoung covering his side of Seoul for once.

Tonight’s agenda is a simple one: he’s decided to buy himself a phone. One of those fancy ones with the touch-screen things and the high-def camera things he’s most often seen in the hands of souls he’s picked up after being hit by buses or trucks while crossing the street and texting. Not that he’s going to take pictures, but he figures maybe it’ll make him seem a little bit more normal. He’s definitely seen people taking photos of their food at the cafe that he and Jinyoung hang out at sometimes.

For once in his life as a reaper, he finds himself very much wanting to be mortal again, to be a part of mankind, to be _seen._ It’s a strange feeling for him, for someone so closely acquainted with invisibility and death, someone who quite enjoys the peace of having one task and one task only: find the soul, get the tea right, submit your paperwork at the end of the month.

It’s been a while since he’s felt any form of discontent. Mostly, he likes to do what he must, likes to tick life off of a checklist. It gives him satisfaction to gather his assigned souls, to sit in his tea shop, to offer them the Tea of Forgetting and the Salve of Rebirth if their hearts are light and the Tea of Sleep and the Alloy of Death if they’re heavy. And while it’s never pleasant to give the Potion of Damnation and burn the Sage of Cleansing when he happens upon a cruel soul, he doesn’t necessarily hate it either. Work is work. The routine has always been enough.

But things have changed.

Now, when he closes his eyes, he feels a vast discontent build in his chest, giving way like mountains birthing a valley after an earthquake. He feels like a hand grasping at dark waters for a lost trinket: a ceramic inkwell or a paintbrush or a ring--he doesn’t know what he’s looking for but would know it if he felt it, if it did so much as brush against his fingertips. He would know the shape and the feel and heft of it.

Every night since the incident on the bridge, he’s dreamt of Pillie, the beautiful man, the way that his white coat fluttered around his honeyed skin, the way that he smiled, the way that he held out his handkerchief, patterned in bright flowers of teal and amber. He thinks of that symbol on his fourth finger--a tattoo? A birthmark? In the dream, the beautiful man is dressed in bright yellow to match the vibrance of his smile. In the dream, they’re standing in the shade of a tree during the peak of summer. Sunlight bounces off of a lake. 825 makes as if to kiss him, but Pillie puts a hand up to stop him.

_Someone will see._

Someone will see.

A pebble dropping into the lake of his memories and rippling outward, touching everything that had otherwise lain still, calm.

For the first time in his life as a reaper, 825 wonders about his past life, about how he came to be.

Reapers are not born, they are made.

Reapers are not taken by reapers but are fetched from the mortal life by the Almighty himself.

The rest of it is all rumor, guesswork from documents glanced at, accidentally flipped through. 825 can’t be sure but he’d heard some of the others talking about it during their company dinners and division outings--word on the street is it being a reaper is the middle ground during which the powers-that-be decide whether or not to give you another shot at life.

Usually, it means you did something terrible. Usually, it means they aren’t sure if they can inflict you on the living again except to usher you into death.

The mortals are made to forget so they can begin again.

Reapers are made to forget because if they remembered the gravity of their sin, they would crumple under the weight of it.

 _It’s a fucking prison sentence,_ Jinyoung had always said before he’d gotten his name, before he realized that potentially living forever meant dating all of the girls and guys that he wanted. _You know how many coffee cups our lifetimes are? Waaaay more than in that Rent song._

825 had never quite empathized, but now he sees where Jinyoung had been coming from.

Tonight 825 sits on one of the benches at the park near the mansion, holding his brand new phone in his hand (the sticker is still on the screen). After a little tinkering around, he figures out how to dial, punches in the number that’s seared into his memory: 04-328-9876.

He holds his breath as the call connects. Two rings, a click, crunching like someone chewing on something before the voice on the other line speaks.

“Hello?” Pillie’s voice makes 825’s heart flutter.

“Good evening, it’s impolite to chew over the phone.”

“Who _is_ this?”

“It’s me.”

“Wow. Rude _and_ self-centered. I think you have the wrong--”

“--04-328-9876. I promised not to forget it and so I haven’t.”

“Are you the creep from the overpass?”

“Yes?”

Pillie laughs over the line. 825 wishes he could be there to see the laughter ripple through Pillie’s pristine features.

“I thought you didn’t have a phone.”

“I just bought one.”

“You _bought_ one. Well, well. Touche, Mr. Show Off. Do you expect me to be flattered?”

“Not really,” 825 says, looking up at the night sky and wondering where in this vast city Pillie could be tonight. “It’s just a phone. All of this metal is nothing in the grander scheme of things.”

“Oh. Well. You didn’t have to do that. They have phone booths for a reason, you know. Also, there’s the internet or you could call me from your office.”

825’s eyebrows furrow, trying to recall if they had a working phone at the Death Bureau.

“I thought it’d make me seem a little bit more normal.”

“I think you’re _way_ past that,” Pillie says. “Even if you got a mortgage right now and got addicted to SNS, you couldn’t be normal.”

“What’s SNS?”

“See what I mean.”

“I’m confused--”

“--so why did you call?”

825 frowns. “Well. You told me to.”

“OH so if I didn’t tell you to call, you wouldn’t call?” Pillie sounds amused. 825 can hear the smile in his voice.

“I would be much less incentivized. But I’m glad that I did.”

“Are you?”

“I like hearing your voice. It makes my heart feel warm.”

There’s a sigh. It sounds to 825 like the gentle rippling of a lake against the stoney bank. “Then why don’t you just tell me your name?”

“Because I don’t have one. Not a real one.”

“You have a fake one, then?”

“I suppose.”

“Hit me.”

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“Try me.”

“825.”

“Wait, like the _number_?”

“I told you,” 825 says, looking at his feet, feeling the embarrassment build inside him.

“Your parents must’ve had some sense of humor,” Pillie says gently. “It’s okay. It’s kind of cute. Maybe I could give you a nickname.”

“A nickname?”

“Mmm. Like Pillie is long-hand for Pil, which is my given name. My parents were pretty strange too. They only gave me one syllable and it used to embarrass me so I went with Pillie instead. Maybe I’ll call you Oeroun.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Well, you looked lonely. You were _crying_ for crying out loud.”

“Which is why I don’t want to be called lonely.” _Lonely--lonely is the feeling of all this._

“Hrrrrm. Shorter, then? We could cut the syllables out, make it cute. How about Woon? I could call you Woon. Woon-ah.”

825 feels his heart lighten somehow, feels a tingle of something familiar, something he’s sure he’s felt before shrouded in haze. “Woon-ah. That sounds...fair.”

“It sounds adorable is what it sounds like.” Pillie laughs.

825 smiles. Tears sting his eyes again. It feels strange to feel like this, to want like this. He wants to hear that sound again. He needs to see him again.

“Now, Woon-ah. Are you going to ask me out or do I have to do everything myself?”

 

Jae spends the night. It’s not something that they intend, it’s just something that happens. After dinner--Brian had cooked them French Onion soup with perfectly toasted garlic bread, had pulled out a bottle of pink wine--they’d had a couple of glasses each, unwound a little, finally relaxing from the pressures of the evening past, both finally letting the anger that they’d built up over the past week go.

_It’s okay to enjoy each other’s company._

Jae told Brian about the different things he’d been thinking about for his thesis: a couple of documentary projects he was interested in taking up (mostly on music, mostly on how genres solidify into what they are today), a couple of different books that he’d been reading about The Beatles and the Andy Warhol crowd’s commercial aesthetic and how that contrasted with the politicized work that John and Yoko had used to advocate against the Vietnam War. Brian had commented on meeting some of the people talked about--Janis Joplin, for one. Jae accused him of being a show-off. Brian had asked if Jae would like to see his personal collection of books and records, maybe he’d find something that he liked.

And so they’d wandered into Brian’s bedroom, Jae’s mouth falling open at the sight of all of the shelves that were full of volumes upon volumes from the floor up to the ceiling, a white ladder leaning against the far wall.

“I’m afraid of heights,” Jae says, looking up, the prospect of having to balance on the ladder to reach a book making him a bit queasy. He shakes his head, sits on the foot of the bed.

Brian grins, flicking his wrist so that one of the volumes comes levitating down to carefully land in Jae’s grasp.

He grins, glad to show off just a little. He dims the lights, lights the candles with a wave of his hand, pointing to the vintage record player which drops its needle into a vinyl playing Blue Moon.

“You can ask me to get it for you.” Brian shrugs. “You know. Perks of dating a powerful deity, I guess.”

Jae’s stomach does a little flip. “Dating, huh. Is that what you call this _thing_? Is this how you date Goblin-Style? I thought you didn’t want it to hurt for either of us? I thought it was better not to get attached?”

“It seems to be the only way,” Brian says softly. “And I don’t know how to date Goblin-Style. When I was young, people didn’t really _date._ They found a suitable match and the you got married. And of course, after that, I really didn’t bother dating anyone seriously. I just kind of had sex with people I found attractive and kept them as friends.”

Jae sighs a little too loudly. “Of course I have to end up with the OG fuccboi.”

Brian raises an eyebrow as he sits beside Jae. “What’s a fuccboi?”

Jae giggles to himself. “Nevermind. Anyway. You don’t just start _dating_ someone. You have to ask them.”

“Oh. Right,” Brian says, taking a deep breath. He smiles a little to himself, a blush starting to creep across his cheeks as he looks at Jae, meets his eye. “Jae, will you be my consort?"

“ _Consort?_ The word is _boyfriend_ , these days, grandpa.”

“Boyfriend, then,” Brian blurts out, his cheeks full-on crimson now.

Jae grins, shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Jeez, Brian. You didn’t have to make such a big _deal_ out of it.”

Brian laughs, pulls Jae toward him softly by the sleeve of his oversized suit. Jae smiles into the kiss as their lips meet, Brian’s hands playing with the soft hair of Jae’s nape, Jae’s own hands cupping Brian’s face. After, they hold each other’s gaze for a moment, Jae’s deep brown eyes staring into Brian’s nearly black ones.

“You feeling alright?” Jae asks softly, letting his eyes flutter shut. “That sword still in there tight?”

Brian nods. “You’re not going to lose me tonight.”

“Bri?”

“Mmm?”

“Can I sleep here?”

“I don’t want things to go too fast--”

“--no, I just mean like. Literally sleep here? I don’t think I’d be able to go back to the apartment and think of you dying on me in the middle of the night. At least if I sleep here, I can wake up to check.”

Brian pauses to think about it. “Okay.”

They take turns using the bathroom, Brian lending Jae a pair of his silk pajamas--they look a bit awkward on Jae: too wide and not long enough, but they’re comfortable and Brian thinks he looks cute and Jae likes how the clothes smell distinctly of Brian. They climb into bed tentatively, both of them a little shy at first, Jae turning onto his side to hug one of the pillows. Brian smiles as carefully, he curls himself around Jae, bringing his arms around him so that Jae’s back is flush with his chest.

He kisses the back of Jae’s neck. Jae pulls Brian’s arms tighter around him.

“Goodnight, Jae.”

“Sweetdreams, BriBri.”

 _BriBri._ Brian repeats the endearment to himself, enjoying the sound of it on Jae's lips.

 

When Brian wakes up the next day after the deepest slumber he’s slept in a long, long time, Jae’s already gone, Sungjin having chauffeured him to school (not without much chiding and _walk of shame_ jokes). There’s a note on his dresser that reads _Have a great day. See you after class. <3 _which Brian folds over once, twice, and keeps in a wooden jewelry box for safe-keeping.

In a daze, he wanders out in to the living room, plopping down on the sofa. He’s grinning, can’t stop. He keeps thinking about Jae: the way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way his voice sounds, the way he’d felt in Brian’s arms the night before. It takes him a moment to realize that 825 is sitting beside him, nursing a shot glass of Soju.

“You look chipper,” 825 says grimly.

Brian almost jumps out of his skin. “Jesus _Christ_ you’re so fucking quiet. Yeah, I am feeling pretty good about myself.”

Brian glances down at the emerald-green bottle of Soju sitting on the coffee table, takes in the half-empty shot glass in 825’s hand. “Isn’t it a little bit early to be drinking?”

“Do you want to join me?”

“I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

“Then you can get it yourself. I don’t work on my days off.”

“Fine.” Brian sighs, gesturing toward one of the cupboards, floating a shot glass down toward himself. “But if my stomach acts up, you’re driving me to the hospital.”

825 doesn’t speak, just pours Brian a shot.

Brian’s eyebrows furrow. “What’re you upset about, anyway?”

825 sighs. “I hate love. I am in the throes of despair over it.”

Brian knocks back his shot. “Oh, I’ve _got_ to hear this.”

“I cried,” 825 says. “I saw him and I cried. He was so beautiful. Oh and that was just the tip of the iceberg--you should hear how he _laughed._ It was like--”

Brian frowns into his empty glass, sitting up straight, feeling an odd sense of dejavu creep up on him. He looks up at the high ceiling, counting the marbled squares. _Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four--_

“--it was like living all of your life thinking you were a blank sheet and suddenly having someone paint the most vibrant flowers on you. Imagine being sung to life after being dead for so long.”

825’s voice is so tender that Brian almost claps him on the back--he would’ve if not for the sense of nausea that overcomes him. It might be the alcohol, the lack of food in his stomach, but there is also something else, some odd sense of familiarity that Brian can’t quite place.

_A blank sheet of paper, a paintbrush doused in magenta weaving cloud-patterns through white space._

“Is this how you feel about Jae?” 825 asks. “You must be in so much pain. How do you live with yourself? He makes me want to have a name. I let him give me a name.”

“I suppose,” Brian says, taking a deep breath, trying to stave off the impending headache. “I suppose I understand. I’ll give you the advice I gave someone long ago--although the circumstances were different and even if that didn’t pan out the way I’d have hoped, I think this advice is sound. Love is like a sunset. It won’t last forever but everything ends anyway, so you may as well witness it and hold onto that memory when it’s over.”

825 looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, eyes studying Brian’s. “Where have I read that before?”

Brian smiles, the wave of nausea passing. “You couldn’t have read it anywhere. I made that up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Now, how about a truce and I cook us some food before the alcohol burns through my gut before the sword gets pulled out of my chest?”

 

They’d told Younghyun of their plan after they’d set everything up, after they’d made sure that no one could stop them: it took more than a year of slow planning, of getting the king to sign off on small amendments to the law while he was ill, of Dowoon building up the strength of the men who guarded him. This was simply the next chink in the chain, the next step forward.

If only they’d known then that the king would die, that Dowoon would be set to rule far before he was ready, that he would take some missteps that were set up for him to fail, that the northern tribes would attack and Younghyun would be sent to war, that the advisers would set poison to the very bowls from which Dowoon supped. If only they had known then that marriage could do little against wrath and plotting and cunning of those in power.

But they hadn’t, yet, on that calm evening in the spring when Dowoon had called for the Kang brothers after supper, dismissing the rest of his guard to take their dinner at the main palace.

Captain Kang would guard them.

Dowoon had lead them down to the perch by the lake, preparing some imported liquor that some of their ships had brought in--Sake poured from a ceramic carafe into slender, porcelain flasks. They sat differently that night--in hindsight, Younghyun often thinks he should’ve known then, but his guard was down, he wasn’t paying attention: Dowoon and Wonpil side by side, Younghyun across them.

Dowoon’s right hand, the place of the Royal Consort.

“Should you be drinking when you’re meeting your bride-to-be tomorrow?” Younghyun had asked, not glancing at Wonpil, for fear of seeing the hurt that he knew would be hung upon his brother’s face. He’d seen the letters, the furtive glances. “Or does the Princess of Qing like drunk bastards?”

Cicadas cooed in the still night air.

Dowoon took a calm sip from his drink.

Younghyun was surprised to find him smiling.

“I’m not going to meet my bride-to-be tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Younghyun, the reason I called for you two today is two-fold. I come to you both as your prince and as your friend--I have a favor to ask of you, and also permission that I will beg of you. Or perhaps I shall beg for both. Whatever it is, so be it.”

Younghyun glanced at Wonpil but Wonpil averted his eyes, pretending to concentrate on folding a blue square of paper into a crane.

 _A thousand cranes to make a wish--_ or so their neighbors across the sea believed.

“Alright, then. What is it?”

“As your prince, I command you to renew your loyalty to me and the House of Yoon come what may--even if you don’t agree with my decisions, even when things seem bleak. I need you to fight for me.”

Younghyun frowned before getting up and unsheathing his sword, moving to kneel before Dowoon, his head bowed down to the earth, sword laid out at Dowoon’s feet.

“You have my word and my sword for as long as I shall live. I swear it on the noble houses of Yoon and Kang, I swear it on the Goryeo empire, on our beloved land, and on our friendship formed in both brotherhood and blood.”

Dowoon smiled and nodded, tapping Younghyun softly on the shoulders, acknowledging his pledge. Younghyun set his sword back into his scabbard before sitting back down.

“And the other matter?”

To his surprise, Dowoon stood and took off his head garment, unfastened the two silver flowers that were emblems of the crown prince and set them down softly on the table. Slowly, he knelt, knees kissing the earth, forehead touching the soft grass. In his hand was a silver ring on which an odd heart-like shape was engraved.

“In the absence of the Head of the House of Kang, I ask you, Kang Younghyun, eldest ascendant and Captain of my guard, soldier of the Goryeo army, my dearest friend, for permission to take your brother’s hand in marriage. As a pledge of my loyalty for the dangerous endeavor into which I have dragged Kang Wonpil, I offer up the Queen’s ring to be his to have and bargain with as he should please. It was my mother’s and my father’s mother’s before her. With this, I give him power over all that is held to my name. I give him power over me and my estate.”

Younghyun felt a gasp escape him, glanced over to see Wonpil sitting shell-shocked at all that Dowoon had said. And on his brother’s face, he’d seen it: all of that love, all of the passion and happiness that Younghyun hoped he could one day feel for himself for something or someone other than war and battle.

Slowly, Younghyun tapped both of Dowoon’s shoulders, his decision being made: come what may, he would defend them. Come what may, he would fight for them.

Dowoon rose, replacing the two silver lotus flowers, the prince’s headgear. He sat back down next to Wonpil, both of them unable to stop smiling as softly, slowly, he put the ring onto Wonpil’s palm.

“Keep it secret for now, Yunpillie.”

Younghyun grinned at the old nickname.

Wonpil nodded, folding the ring into his silk kerchief before tucking it into the pockets of his hanbok. He looked at Younghyun, his eyes full of worry.

“Do you really approve, hyung?”

Younghyun’s expression was stern, but his voice tender.

“The way that I see it, from what I have read in poetry and fables, not just from Goryeo but from our neighbors to the north, from across the sea, wherever you are from, love is a sunset: if it is there, you must bear witness or regret it all your life. Everything ends, we may as well be there to watching it whilst it still shimmers.”

Wonpil reached for Dowoon’s hand under the low table, holding it firmly in his grasp. He looked up at Younghyun, his eyes glassy with tears.

“Thank you, hyung.”

The three of them drank the rest of the liquor in jovial silence, all of them glad despite the worry and anticipation of the ruckus that all of it would cause. Their spirits were still high, their hearts proud with youth and hope.

If they had been a little older, a little more wizened, their enthusiasm shaved down to a point like the sharp end on a dagger, they would’ve thought to look around for eyes that may be watching them from the darkness. Across the lake, quiet and still as a shadow, there stood Head Adviser Gamja, hidden under the shade of an old tree. He was old but still barrel-chested, still a warrior, and most importantly, still smart as a whip, his eyesight keen as a hawk's.

The crown prince had made their lives hell over the past few months with his legislation--always, his father signed, always the seals were in tact, always the council had been rendered helpless. Gamja hated, above all, being made to feel helpless: he was a man of power, a man of the court and the law. All men who crossed him were outlaws--or else, he made them so. Men who crossed Gamja always paid dearly for their folly.

Now, his mouth curled into a sly grin. He recognized that gesture, had been there to see it enough times. The crown prince only gets on his knees twice in his life: first, during the coronation, and second, when he asks for his bride’s hand in marriage.

Gamja chuckled to himself. The boy didn’t know how close they’d brought his father to the grave, how easy it was to sway the opinion of the people, how easy it was to let the invaders into the land so they could send Kang the elder to his bloody death.

_You are nothing but a fragile bird, Yoon Dowoon. And your canary-colored love shall be your cage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Gamja is a villainous character I made up for all my AUs cause I hate casting people as the bad guy. He is pure evil and based off of Trump. Ur welcome.


	8. Desire, a pitcher of wild flowers between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two old flames meet and Jae gets some chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the poem called Remembering Winter by Trijin Paja which you can read here: http://www.theadroitjournal.org/issue-twenty-four-triin-paja/
> 
> Sorry for any typos, I'll correct them tomorrow. :D Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

“I _still_ don’t get it,” Brian says, frowning as he and Jae watch Humphrey Bogart on screen, strutting down the airstrip in black and white as the background music swells. He’d seen Casablanca millions of times--and not once had he shed a tear.

_Here’s looking at you, kid._

“How--how could you _not_ get it?” Jae is curled up against Brian, sobbing into his shoulder. His lean frame rises and falls with every deep breath, every sniffle.

They’re sitting on the couch, the remnants of the dinner that Brian’s prepared for them--fried chicken drizzled with hoisin sauce on rice plus a side of steamed vegetables, a glass of dark ale for himself, a strawberry smoothie for Jae--on the coffee table before them.

“Are you made of fucking stone?”

“On the contrary.” Brian smiles, taking in Jae’s red nose, his puffy eyes. He takes off Jae’s glasses, sets them down on the table before using his thumbs to wipe Jae’s tears from his cheeks gently. “And stop cursing.”

“I’ll stop when you develop a sense of empathy.” Jae’s gaze meets his. “It’s the most tragic thing in the world. He literally gave up the love of his life so that she could be safe and so that Victor Laszlo could save the world from goddamn Hitler. Think about _that_. They’ll always have Paris, BriBri. God.”

“He was an idiot,” Brian says, planting a soft kiss onto Jae’s forehead.

Jae gapes at him. “How could you _say_ that?”

Brian laughs. “Okay. So he let her go with him because he was convinced that a) she would be better off with Laszlo and b) he was a hero who had to be kept safe. If it were me, I would know that she wasn’t better off with Laszlo because it was being with him in the first place that lead her to have to seek sanctuary in Casablanca. And also, if he was a hero that had to be kept safe then he’d do better without liabilities. Plus the fact that he knows that she doesn’t even love him. If it were me, I would get Laszlo on that plane and get her to marry me and live in Casablanca. I love Morocco.”

“But he _promised_ to help the resistance--”

“--he could do both! And didn’t he promise her that they’d be together at some point?”

Jae sighs, wrapping an arm around Brian’s waist, pressing his cheek to Brian’s chest. “You’re the King of Missing The Point.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Bri?”

“Mmmm?”

“There’s something that I’ve been meaning to show you. Just speaking of promises and contracts and stuff.”

Brian’s eyebrows furrow, not really wanting to think about contracts and the bigger scheme of things--not when he’s begun to think of Jae’s apartment as home, when they have dinner together almost everyday except for when Jae’s got school activities or when Brian has engagements at work. “Oh. Alright.”

Jae plants a kiss on Brian’s cheek. “Just--don’t look so upset. It’s nothing devastating.”

Brian smiles fondly as he watches Jae bound over to his backpack that he’d dumped on one of the dining room chairs. _A lanky lightbeam._ Jae pulls a sheaf of papers out, wrinkled from being stuffed into his backpack but mostly legible. He hands them to Brian.

“Okay. So. I wrote a little addendum to our contract thing.”

Brian blinks. “Jae, look,  I mean--”

Jae sits down next to him, putting a hand gently on Brian’s arm. “Look, I know we were both being stupid that night. I know we were both mad and resentful. And. I’ll admit it was before I--”

Brian watches in amusement as Jae turns the color of summer: a pink blush coloring his cheeks, working its way down his neck.

“--I mean before we--well, okay, how do I put this? Before I knew that you liked me back--and a lot of the things that we talked about then were kind of based on that.”

“Of course,” Brian says, nodding. “I would one hundred percent leave you the mansion and all of my lucrative businesses except the automotive and liquor arms because I’ve promised them to Sungjin, he’s cultivated his entire personality around eventually becoming the head of those two subsidiaries--”

“--oh. Right. No. No, no, um. That’s not what I meant. I mean. Okay. So. I know that our basic situation hasn’t changed. I know that we’re probably working on borrowed time but I’d really like to enjoy that time with you. So I wrote up some terms that I think might be more in my interest now.”

Brian looks up at him after skimming and scanning the first page. “What’s a bucket list?”

“For fuckin’ real?”

“I can’t believe you kiss me with that mouth.”

“It’s a list of things you want to do before you die. I want to help you do them. In exchange for being so kind to me. You better savor this moment because I don’t think I’ll say it a lot but I’ve basically been alone since my mom died--and there are things worse than being alone, there’s being beaten up by your aunt, having your cousins sabotage your things and your achievements. It’s crazy. I know you didn’t really want to at first and I know that we kind of started off on the wrong foot with the whole sword-stabby-paramedics thing but you’re a good guy. And I know you told me that the powers-that-be or whatever want you to pay for your crimes of wrath but I don’t want you to leave this life thinking that you hadn’t been loved, thinking that the best thing to do was die. You took me in and you take care of me and this is the happiest that I’ve ever been so I’d like that to be the addendum. I want to help you achieve the things on your bucket list in addition to getting a job of my own and all that jazz.”

Brian blinks, surprised when tears roll down his cheeks. “You know I hadn’t really thought about that--I was kind of too obsessed with the dying part--”

Jae chuckles. “--well, now think about that whole living part. And write a 5,000-word essay on why Casablanca is the best movie anyone’s ever made.”

Brian snorts at that.

“I mean it though, okay?” Jae’s eyes are serious, fixed on Brian’s expression. “And give me the list on Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“Oh yeah.” Jae grins, leaning back against Brian. “I’m going job hunting tomorrow so don’t pick me up. I can just take a cab home after since I’ve got some money saved.”

Brian frowns, that vision coming back to him: Jae’s life after he’s gone, working at a Chicken shop, sitting with another man, dancing with someone else. _It’s not going to stop despite me falling in love--it’s going to happen because of it._

“Do you really _have_ to?”

“Hey, I’ve got it all figured out. Bernard pointed out to me today that I kinda look like Chicken Little. So I figure the best thing to do would be to apply at--get this--a Chicken & Beer place. It’s basically like free advertising if they hire me.”

Brian grins, feigns an exasperated sigh, trying to keep the sadness out of his expression. “If you _want_  a job, don’t lead with that.”

“Okay, Grandpa.” Jae says jokingly, leaning against Brian’s chest, pulling Brian’s arms tighter around him, intertwining their fingers together. “I’m kinda gonna miss you picking me up tomorrow though.”

Brian smiles sadly. “And I’ll miss being there.”

A tiny prickle of pain stings his chest and he knows that the sword has loosened just the smallest bit, the equivalent of another tiny shard of time taking him farther away from Jae.

  


As soon as he sees him, 825 starts to tear up again.

They’ve decided to meet at a rather upscale cafe that’s just opened in the more historical area of Seoul--it’s a place that 825 knows well, one of the first districts where he’d begun gathering souls. He thinks it’s a pretty odd place to put up a cafe: it’s one of the smaller palaces that’s been renovated, the whole thing revamped and made to look shiny and new or, well, just the way that it was meant to be back when the old thing was still new. The ceilings are high, the windows wide and open, looking out onto lush green gardens and blue pond.   _If only they knew how many people died here._ The entire place is done up with the original Goryeo symbolisms and erroneously re-embellished with more Joseon-era furnishings. The baristas wear hanboks, the tables are low, the padded cushions upholstered with white-on-gold fabric.

825 is early, picks a seat by the window that looks out onto the water. The sunshine pours in, chimes ringing softly above him from the window frame--he feels a shiver run up his spine, the sound of them stirring something in him, a feeling he’s been getting too often for his comfort lately. Just then, he looks up to see Pillie walk in through the doors, a vision in a white turtleneck and a mustard-yellow coat, his dark hair blowing in the soft breeze that comes in through the windows. 825 watches as Pillie orders coffee, as he bows gracefully to the person at the cashier, as he walks toward 825, eyes brightening as he spots him, hand held up in a small wave.

Again, that symbol, that tattoo or birthmark on his fourth finger.

There’s something in the way that Pillie moves, the way that he puts his bag down softly, the way that he takes his seat gracefully--it’s at once fierce and gentle, regal and humble, something that 825 hasn’t seen on any human being before (or perhaps it is the opposite, perhaps the gestures seem familiar, like something lost that he’s found again). Pillie sits down across from him, hands laying softly on top of each other on the wooden table.

Their eyes meet.

A tear slips down 825’s cheek.

_Get it together._

Pillie reaches into his pocket, hands him a white handkerchief embroidered with a golden lotus flower. “I brought one for you this time. I painted that myself too.”

825 takes it, dabs at his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to do it, I promise.”

“Don’t cry, Woon-ah,” Pillie says, smiling at him, patting his arm. “Do I make you that sad?”

825 shakes his head. “I--I think you make me happy.”

“That’s a little bit forward, don’t you think,” Pillie says, grinning. “I mean, I’ve only just met you.”

“I know. Don’t you feel like crying?”

Pillie laughs. “Why would I cry if I was happy?”

Their coffees arrive--a black Americano for 825, a Caramel Macchiato for Pillie.

“See, before we even start to date, let me tell you something about life, Woon-ah.” Pillie takes a teaspoon of brown sugar, mixes it gently into his coffee.

825 is mesmerized by the gesture, by Pillie’s eyes, by the way the sunlight bounces off of his skin. “Good. I don’t know much about life.”

“That’s obvious,” Pillie says, chucking softly. “It’s a waste of time to cry if you’re happy. Life is cruel and throughout its duration, people are going to stab you in the back and betray you, they’re going to do things to you that are going to rip you up inside--I should know, I used to work as a model and things were cutthroat. There’s always enough time in life to cry but not enough to laugh. So if you say I make you happy, then smile when I’m here.”

825 blinks, nods solemnly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Show me,” Pillie says.

“What?”

Pillie flashes him a bright smile. “Show me your smile.”

825 frowns, not really sure how to smile at someone unless he was making fun of them like he did with Jinyoung and the Goblin or unless he was pleased at having delivered them safely to the tea room.

“Come on, you can do it.” Pillie wiggles his eyebrows. “Please?”

825 nods slowly before trying a smile on for size, lifting the corners of his mouth, trying to bring the sensation to the rest of his face--his cheeks, the corners of his eyes.

Pillie’s expression changes, grows intent with a serious kind of amusement.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

Pillie shakes his head, leans forward as if to cup 825’s cheek but then remembers himself and draws back. “No. No, that was perfect.”

  


The ceremony was a small one, held in one of the smaller palaces--the Royal Council hadn’t been able to do anything about the legalities of the matter, had no choice but to turn away the Crown Prince’s betrothed once he’d announced that he’d given his family’s engagement ring to someone, once he’d made the royal announcement that he was to wed Wonpil of House Kang. It was approved by the king--at least on paper. Dowoon’s father was a kind man and Dowoon knew in his heart of hearts that although his father lay bedridden and ill from a poisoning that no one could explain or understand, he knew that if he had been in the right frame of mind, he would have approved of his son’s true love. The decision had come with consequences: rumors spread across the kingdom like ink left too long on paper, turning everything blue with farce--whispers are a living thing and as they spread, they grew more and more malicious. Sorcery, they said. Dark, dark magic. A curse on the House of Kang, the House of Yoon--an end to their lineage as there would be no heirs, no offspring.

The capital stood in gridlock: the old king dying but not quite dead, the new king about to be married but not in the way that they desired. The King-Consort’s brother more powerful than ever, winning battles back-and-forth, gaining favor with the people, rising in the ranks, now Lieutenant-Colonel with rumors of being in line for a promotion to General within the year. The one thing the Royal Council had been able to meddle in was the grandeur of the wedding, was the dignity of the thing.

There would be no walk down the main courtyard of the palace.

There would be no festivities for the entire capital.

There would be no straw dolls replicated in their name, no special Hanbok made for the King-Consort, no bright bouquets made to line the King-Consort’s chambers--what for, Gamja had joked during a clandestine meeting of the council, when they were to do away with him as quickly as they could?

The brother they would kill with war.

The Crown Prince they would possess with poison.

And then the King-Consort with whatever they had left--arrows, swords, what did it matter?

What they hadn’t counted on was that the King-Consort was resourceful and had the kind of spirit that was as sharp and bright as a well-hewn blade: Wonpil made his own wedding robes, sewed them out of silk he spent hours slaving away at the loom to make. He hand-painted the bright, golden flower-patterns onto the white fabric with the utmost care, making the petals flare out more and more as they spilled out onto the skirt. The bell-sleeves he painted a darker gold, mimicking the scale-patterns on the Crown Prince’s blue, serpentine robes. The head piece was a gift from Dowoon: two golden combs with mother-of-pearl fashioned in the shape of a lotus flower, an elaborate string of golden beads flowing from them. Wonpil wore them on either side of his hair, Younghyun helping him with the train of beads that flowed out and over the back of his gold-on-white Hanbok. Wonpil beamed at himself in the mirror as he turned to see how it all looked, pleased with how it turned out. On his fourth finger finailly sat Dowoon's mother's heirloom, that soft heart-symbol engraved into the white gold.

The wedding was small but it was theirs.

There would be no parade, no feast, but they would be together.

On the day, Younghyun was dressed in his Lieutenant-Colonel’s uniform, the scarlet of it bright in the sunshine-pierced palace. A yellow pin hung proud on his chest, the emblem of the House of Kang. He led the small march of the Royal Guard, announcing the King-Consort’s entrance. It had taken him all of his self-control not to cry as he glanced at the Crown Prince, his face usually stoic or rapt with mischief and no room for anything in between, and saw his eyes glassy with tears as Wonpil entered the palace.

His shoulders began to shake underneath his heavy robes, the bright blue of his robes seeming dull when compared to the love in his eyes. As he met him at the Altar of the Water Dragon, Wonpil smiled the brightest that he’d ever smiled.

“Don’t cry, Dowoonie.”

“I’m sorry,” Dowoon said, smiling through the tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--I’m just so happy--”

Softly, Wonpil lifted a silk sleeve up to wipe away Dowoon’s tears. “--that doesn’t make any sense. Let’s laugh today. At least for today.”

They turned to the Adviser of Spirits, one of their few trusted comrades on the Royal Council, who later would be tried and slaughtered for unfounded claims of treason.

He bowed, first to the Dowoon and then to Wonpil.

“Let us begin.”

And with that, the chaos of destiny were set in motion like the gears on a clock wound back, cursed to turn again and again.

  


Jae sighs as he hikes up the hilly terrain of Sinsa-dong, frustrated at the way that his afternoon’s gone. The sun is about to set over the hills--and still, nothing. Turns out _Hey, I’m Chicken Little!_ didn’t quite work as well as he’d liked. Most of the business owners hadn’t seen the film and those who had didn’t think it was lucrative to make their customers feel bad about potentially eating a cute cartoon character.

He sighs as he follows the road toward the closest stop where can get a taxi home. It isn’t like he necessarily _needs_ the job ASAP--it’s just something that he wants to do to distract himself from thinking of the impending loss of Brian. It all seemed so simple at the beginning: a contract, a one-off sort of thing. And it would’ve been simple if it had been anyone else, but it isn’t. Brian is Young K, his favorite singer, the star of his childhood liquid dreams, the reckoning of his previously non-existent sexuality--and later on, the man whose songs were the creed that kept him striving to survive through adversity. He can’t not care. He can’t not be with him.

So there’s this: the seemingly futile hunt for a job he doesn’t need.

He’s about to head to the taxi station when he takes a wrong turn somewhere, ends up instead by the river, right at the foot of a bridge that curves right over the body of water. Something catches his eye: a bright yellow sign that reads PIRRIEPIRRIE’S CHICKEN & BEER.

In the window, an ad typed out in bold, bright yellow font:

URGENT HIRING!!! Part-Time Worker Wanted For PirriePirrie’s Exquisite Chicken & Beer, must be fun to talk to and love eating food for free. Wages negotiable, no experience needed.

Through the window: a beautiful man clad in a stylish blue polo sitting cross-legged at a table, picking at a bowl of pickled radish.

Jae studies the place from where he’s standing on the opposite side of the road: it looks clean enough and the ad sounds pretty much like him. _Might as well while I’m here._ Hesitantly, he crosses the street and pushes the door open.

The beautiful man looks up at him. Beautiful, brown eyes lined with the thickest lashes. A wide mouth, golden skin, hair swept away from his face in soft waves as though a breeze was eternally blowing through it.

To Jae’s surprise the man leaps out of his chair at the sight of Jae.

“OH MY GOD! A customer!”

“No, I--”

“--no?” The man’s eyes are wide with disappointment.

“I’m applying for the part-timer position,” Jae says quickly.

The beautiful man claps excitedly, getting up to study Jae, pacing around him as if taking note of his hair, his frame, his clothes.

“Kim Pillie, CEO of this beautiful business.” Pillie sticks out a hand which Jae shakes.

“Nice to meet you, Sir.” Jae bows at an angle, trying to seem polite, job-worthy.

“Just call me Pillie.”

“Yes, Sir--err, Pillie...nim.”

Pillie bursts out laughing. “So you’re a student?”

“Yes. Park Jaehyung, journalism major at Dongguk. I’m hardworking, I can speak fluent English, I love Chicken--”

“--you kind of look like Chicken Little,” the beautiful man says, giggling softly with a hand cupped to his mouth. “Except tall. Really tall.”

“Yes,” Jae says carefully. “But I promise I won’t bring it up if it’ll drive the customers away.”

Pillie bursts out laughing before looking wistfully out the window. “If only we had some of those.”

“We could make a website! Are you on delivery? My friend Bernard used to work for a samgyeupsal place and they were really big on impersonations so maybe we could do that--”

Pillie grins. “--okay!”

“Which?”

“All of it,” Pillie says, grinning.

Jae blinks. “Wait, so do I work here now?”

“You’re hired.” Pillie sits back down, re-crosses his legs as he plops some radish into his mouth. “You want some of this? It’s delicious, I promise.”

Jae blinks again, trying to process everything.

“Wait, for fucking real?”  



End file.
